


Eventualities

by Whatevergirl



Category: Gladiator (2000), Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatevergirl/pseuds/Whatevergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gladiator / Les Mis Crossover<br/>Maximus may die, but he is always reborn. Maybe he will be allowed to move on, one day, but for now he lives.<br/>Currently, the man who was a farmer, a soldier, a gladiator, currently that man is a guard, watching over the criminals in Toulon Prison.</p><p>Vaguely based off a kink meme prompt.<br/>Hopefully, the thing will make proper sense. =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Slowly, he forced the blade down; his strength and positioning making the Emperor’s struggling useless. As the man threw his hand up again, the blade caught his neck. The coliseum was silent as the Emperor gasped, blood welling at his throat. He dropped to the ground, but no one spoke._

_Maximus staggered, his body exhausted and weak. He could feel the cool wind upon his face, could smell the scent of his fields, usually so strong, drift past him in wisps.  
There was the door into his property. He reached out a hand... He went to push that door..._

_“Maximus!” He started, trying not to let the voice pull him back. “Maximus.”_

_“Quintus. Free my men.” They would not remain stuck in this bloody arena, or anywhere like it, hopefully. “Senator Gracchus is to be reinstated... There was a dream that was Rome. It shall be realised.” His true Emperor, his... father... would have his dream become a reality, even after the man's actual son had tried to ruin it._

_“These are the wishes of Marcus Aurelius.”_

_He heard the command to free the prisoners. He would have smiled, if he’d had the energy._

_There was that smell again. He could feel the heads of corn brushing against his fingertips... He was so close. He felt his body give out. He did not feel the ground though._

_“Maximus...” Lucilla... Her son could be emperor now._

_“Lucius is safe.” He would be a good emperor. He liked the senate, and they had a fondness for him._

_She nodded her head, but sniffed. Was she crying? Why... Why was she crying? He could smell the manure of his fields now. So close... He could hear his son’s laughter echoing across the fields..._

_It was cool. He pushed through the gate, and saw his home. This... This is what he had been longing for. Home._

_He walked through the fields, not keeping to the muddy tracks, but through his crops, skimming his hands across the heads. His hands were clean now, the blood was gone._

_He was clean, and he was home._

_“Not yet...” came a whisper, but he paid it no mind. His wife stood on the main track, her arms around their boy’s shoulders. She was so beautiful. Tall, majestic, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall..._

_The child ran towards him, a large smile breaking across his innocent facec._

_Maximus fell to his knees and pulled the child into his arms. This hug was not tinged with sadness, and filled with smoke; unlike the last hug he had given to his son’s body..._

_His boy was so much bigger than he had last seen. He had missed so much, fighting for the Emperor..._

_“Papa!” He cried, voice tinkling with joy, “I did not think you could be here yet.”_

_“What do you mean?” He spoke, voice still rough._

_“We will be moving on now, Papa. I am so glad to see you.”_

_“Yes. We can move on together.” He smiled, but the boy shook his head._

_“No, my love.” The melodic tones of his wife’s voice greeted him. “We move on, but you are not done yet.”_

_“No. I am done.”_

_“My love, you are not.” She looked kindly at him. She was not sad._

_He stood and took her in his arms._

_“I am done.” He could not bear to be parted anymore. He had fulfilled his duty, surely. She pressed a kiss to his lips and it was like sweet water after weeks in a desert._

_“Not yet...”_

______

Javert jerked awake, blankets tangled around his body. He lay, breathing heavily, flat out on his small bed, trying to calm himself. It was not the first time he had experienced such dreams, nor would it be the last.

He had discovered, as he had grown, that the dreams that filled his sleep were not his imagination; that the tattoo on his upper left arm had been there since birth, a remnant of another life.

In his 21 years, he had discovered he had lived many, many more. His mother had always treated him as a fae creature- something to keep at a distance, to use as she pleased as opposed to her child. She did not see herself in him. He had decided it did not hurt though. If he was reborn after death, then he had many mothers. Surely, he did not need one in this life too.

Who he was, who he had been... The lines blurred severely. He could remember other lives too, living in many countries. His appearance never vastly changed, and this had on occasion caused trouble. 

He had been an Englishman before; he had been born in Moscow. Once, he had been born in the Americas- His pale skin had not been a concern as they had had bodies and souls of others returned as their children before. It made him wonder if people found it sorrowful when they birthed their child, to find someone who had lived before.

He had died old, he had died young. There were times he did not survive infancy, he was sure. He had many children, he had had grandchildren. He had lived both with a vast family and without one at all.

Yet, he was 21 years.

The young guard sat up, sweating slightly from the summer heat. He would not sleep anymore tonight. Outside, there was noise; the raucous laughter of the off-shift guards, the soft growling of the convicts, though it was not close to the guards' quarters, he liked to think he could hear the roar of the sea amongst all this.

He took a step across the room to wash his face in the bowl set on the floor, before wiping his sweat away with a blanket and dressing.

He fastened his boots and left the room, walking silently past the other men. He often felt distant from them, he found it difficult to attach himself to people as they would die and move on. He did not.

He tried to remember the face of his wife, the face of his son. He tried to remember Hagen’s face, or Juba’s... They slipped by him like water through rocks, visible for but a moment.

“Javert!”

“Sir.” He moved over to the warden, prepared to receive his instructions for the day.

“There was another escape attempt last night. 24601 has received his lashings but is in solitary. You are bringing him his food today. I want you to send a letter to Paris as well, but that can wait till the evening to be written. Also, 22984 has asked if we will send a letter to his wife. You are to write it for him at some point this afternoon. Otherwise, keep an eye on the labour.”

“Sir.”

He left, trying not to let his displeasure show. He did not become a guard to do light work, but here he was delivering food and writing. 

He would age though, and things would improve.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean Valjean was exhausted. The summer heat was worse than he could ever remember it being, and the sweat pooled in every hollow of his body. He wished he was permitted some time outside; at least there he may be able to catch a breeze... He was in solitary though and would not be free from this section of prison for some time. He was here for an escape attempt; it had resulted in a fight and a guard getting injured. He had not meant to harm anyone, but he refused to go to prison meekly.

He let out a long breath and shut his eyes. The heat made him tired, but his sleep was restless as he had nothing to break up his day beyond the rising of the sun and its setting. He was fed at irregular points, only bread and water, and never more than once a day. He was not working, so he did not require as much to eat, apparently. He had only been here a week, but he was bored.

What he missed the most during his forced exile here was the conversation. He enjoyed hearing the other men discuss things, be it religion or politics or rumours and gossip. It broke up the monotony of his life here and gave him something to think about.

The most recent whispering was about both politics and religion. Pierre, one of the guards who liked to talk, had mentioned they were changing the laws regarding lost souls; those who had returned to a body not their own to continue living rather than facing their judgement.

It was being debated by the Napoléon and his republic whether or not they should be tried for removing the chance to live from another soul, whether they should be questioned on whether or not they were spies. After all, who could know where their loyalty lay, with France, or with another country they had previously been born into.

Valjean was curious as to their decision. He wondered if they would be getting new convicts, whose only crime was to have been unable to move on after they died. As far as he was aware, they had no choice about coming back, like ghosts, unable to leave the earthly plane. He was sure there were those who did use the power of Satan in magic forms to gain their desires, but surely not everyone who was lost in this manner did.

He had too much time to think, and no one else’s opinion to temper with his own. He shut his eyes as tried to imagine a cool wind. Someone entered, but he did not open his eyes. He remained still, breathing softly.

“Valjea- 24601. Stand.” 

He opened his eyes; it was Javert, the young guard who still had not gotten used to calling convicts by their numbers. He tended to make the mistake of calling those imprisoned by their names. It was... pleasant, to hear his name spoken aloud.

He turned, and lifted his heavy body up. The guard was slim, attractive but haggard looking, as though he did not get enough sleep. The guard had brought him his meals twice so far this week. His look had not changed.

“Standing, sir.” He did not mean to allow the mocking tone in his voice, but it was difficult to keep it out. This guard held power over him, this child... He had done nothing yet, merely taken an opening to become a bully. That was, as far as he could tell, what this job did to people. The guards very quickly became bullies, spotting faults where there were none, taking pleasure in beating others.

The guard scowled at him, but said nothing. He just held out the bread. In his other hand was a bowl filled with a broth, and he tried not to look at it, tried not to hope. He accepted the bread.

“Here.” He thrust out the bowl as well, and Valjean took it quickly, before the guard could change his mind. He sat down on the cold ground, before glancing back up, thinking to include manners to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Thank you.” He began to dunk his bread, using it to scoop the broth into his mouth. He wanted to ask why, but did not. It was best not to question any kindness.

“Should I have brought something to use as a spoon? I am sorry.” 

“I am little more than a slave. You did not have to do anything.” He hissed; it was uncomfortable hearing the youth apologise to him.

“This is not slavery.”

“Oh, and I suppose you would know.” He ought not be too aggressive, he would not be encouraging any kindness, but he saw an opening and took it. Prison taught a person, whatever their nature, to do that.

“Yes. I have... I have, um, read about it...” There was something a little awkward about that, but he did not ask. He hunched over his meal and ate it quickly.

Usually, the guard would have left already; returning at a later point to collect his bowl, but Javert leaned against a wall and stared at a crack in the wall. He seemed tired. It was not Valjean’s business.

“I may not be a slave entirely, but I am not free.” He stated in between mouthfuls.

“You broke the law. Slaves are slaves through no fault of their own.”

“Your book tells you this, does it?” He teased, feeling a smile lift his features.

Javert scowled at him, a corner of his mouth twitched up briefly. “I will not be mocked.”

“Shall we change the topic? Tell me... Have they changed the laws yet regarding lost souls?”

At his words, the colour dropped from Javert’s face. He went rigid for a moment, before masking his emotions, his... fear? He looked at Valjean.

“Not yet.”

“May I have a drink?” He placed his bowl on the floor, and raised his eyes to Javert. The guard passed over a separate bowl with some water in it. Their hands brushed, and Valjean liked to think the pretty guard had flushed lightly, though it was actually difficult to tell in the heat of the season.

The water was warm, but wet and more enjoyable than the dry throat he’d had in between meals. He finished it quickly, and handed the bowl back.

The guard took it and turned to leave, apparently not concerned with turning his back on him.

“Goodbye, Javert. I am sure I will see you later on.”

The man scoffed as he left, but said nothing in response.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a week later that Valjean was released from solitary. It was still hot, and now he had the added joy of hard labour. Javert was determined not to care though, the man was paying for his crimes and he was not the only one suffering in the heat. 

Many of the convicts had stripped down to the waist, their hard bodies glistening with sweat in the sun. Javert would have preferred to spend all his time watching Valjean work, watching his muscles rippling beneath his skin; he had heard much from the other guards about the man’s oxen strength and he wished he could see it for himself.

He had spent two whole nights this week imagining it. He knew Valjean was a pleasant enough man, not like the rest of the harsh and angry scum that seemed to haunt this place. The guard had even seen a glimmer of a sense of humour over the days he had brought the man food. It made him attractive. It made him very attractive. Perhaps Javert ought to head into town with the other guards on a night off and find himself a woman.

Instead, he spent the night on his bed. He was lucky enough to get his own room, rather than a shared dorm like some of the guards have. He took advantage of this, lying on his bed and imagining Valjean. The man was strong and beautiful. He was at least a decade older, but Javert was not deterred.

He palmed himself, thinking of Valjean as he broke stone, swinging the sledge hammer to make the chippings small. His strength was impressive. He had had his chest bare today, and Javert had tried to look his fill, but his desire to stand and watch had interfered with his duty to keep an eye on all the convicts.

He would like to kiss Valjean, he mused, to taste his skin, his salty sweat. Valjean would hold him close, his hot and heavy body overwhelming Javert’s senses. They would kiss, and Valjean could pick him up. He tried to imagine being held against a wall, not touching the floor. It was difficult to remember if this had ever occurred before; if he had experienced it, it wasn’t a dominant memory.

Javert quickly stripped down, hastily shoving his clothing to the floor. In a box under his bed he kept oil. With a quick glance to check he had blotted the door, Javert pulled free a phial; he lay back, spread his legs and soaked his fingers.

It had been too long since he had the chance to do this, since he had the desire to do this... It was tight, his body accepting a finger, but not easily. He sighed and shifted his hips. Valjean would be able to hold him against the wall while he did this, pressing lewd kisses along his skin. He tried to imagine the convict’s thick fingers moving in him. He added another finger.

He had not been fucked in this body. It had been more than a few lifetimes since he had trusted another enough. He wanted Valjean. He wanted Valjean against a wall, or in the forest, or in a bed. His mother had had no shame in how he saw her. He had seen how the men she had treated her. He liked to think Valjean would be gentle, not a monster.

Valjean would kiss him, encourage him, but ultimately he would have him. He spread his legs further and raised his hips, not quite hitting the spot he wanted. 

Valjean would hold his legs high, forcing his way in and distracting him from any pain. They would move together, moaning and touching as much skin as possible. Valjean’s skin would be rough, scarred; it would be beautiful. He would add his own marks, digging his nails in to show anyone who stripped him that Valjean was owned.

Javert bit his lips, trying to muffle the sounds that were trying to escape.

“Javert?” Someone was banging on his door. He continued regardless, unable to stop. “Javert, Pascal says he needs to talk to you.”

“Right.” He said, trying to keep his voice from being breathy. He was close.

“Are you quite well, Javert?”

“Yes.” He bit his lip again as he skimmed that spot inside. The man left, his footsteps audible as he marched away. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of some convicts. He tried to envision Valjean hovering over him. Hot breath puffing onto his skin, a tongue reaching out, touching his skin.

The idea of Valjean taking him in his mouth was enough. He yelped as he erupted, failing to hold back the noise.

-

“Sir.”

“Guard.” Pascal kept writing while Javert stood there, now clothed with his hair combed. It was meant to be his afternoon off, but he did not show any irritation. 

“Right. Javert. I need you to sign this.”

“What is it?” He took the papers and looked them over.

“The law has been passed. All those who will not move on are to be detained.”

“For what reason?” His stomach fell away, fear flooding him. He kept his eyes down and his expression blank.

“To be questioned as spies, and for taking the chance for life from another soul. For defying God.”

“What is this, then?” He did not want to defy God. How was he supposed to explain this?

“All those in service of the public must submit to inspections, to make sure they are not one of these thieves.”

“How are we to check, sir?” He felt faint. Would they be able to tell? He had been through much in his many lives, but it was so long ago; always so long ago... 

“First, we are to check their bodies for suspicious marks and scars. Then, we shall give them a form of serum. It loosens the tongue and they will be less able to lie.”

“Less able?” It was not looking good. He was not a good liar anyway.

“It is not solid, but as I said, it loosens their tongues. We have a... contact. She claims she can force people to live out the end of their lives.”

“Sir? Is that not...”

“I am not sure... But, we have been ordered to use her if the other two methods indicate someone may be a lost soul.”

“Yes, sir.” He began planning what to put in his box, and where he could bury it. He did not have many possessions, just his oil, some money and the tarot cards his mother had given him when he left to be a guard.

“I know you are young, but you will be fine. Do not let them intimidate you. Sign the papers.”

He signed, knowing he was signing away his freedom.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, Valjean?”

“What?”

“You reckon there will be many?”

“Many what?”

“Wanderers.”

That was a question Valjean was trying not to think on. It was now illegal to be born again. He did not agree with the idea, but it was happening anyway. He felt a great pity for those who would be caught. To be stuck in this world, and now they would be sentenced for it.

Unable to receive divine judgement, they would receive an earthly one instead. 

“I hope not.” He whispered.

“Hey, Valjean?”

“Go to sleep.”

“But-”

“Be quiet!”

It was still very hot, and their cell had four large men in it. Valjean lay on the bottom bunk, eyes shut and trying to sleep. Alexis stopped talking. He was a twitchy young man with a violent temper, but he was trying to improve. He slept in Tristan’s bed in exchange for protection.

Tristan was a calm man of 47. He helped Alexis keep a hold of his temper, and he kept other convicts who liked the look of him at bay. Valjean was thankful for his strength; he had never needed aid. 

The other man in their cell was called Benoît. He was not a kind person. He was a rapist, a drunkard when he had a chance and the main reason Alexis was willing to share a small bunk every night. 

He sighed and tried to relax. It was still so hot. 

“Which guard?” Spoke up Alexis. It was a game where they picked a guard and detailed what they would like to do to him. 

“Shut up.” He knew which guard he would pick, but he did not wish to describe the way he would possess Javert’s body; the way he would lick every inch till the boy begged him for release.

“You are in a bad mood tonight.”

“Keep your boy quiet, Tristan, or I will have him over my knee and shut him up myself.” A low hiss from the bunk above Valjean shot through the air. Alexis hissed slightly, but shut up. Valjean turned over to face the wall.

He considered touching himself to thoughts of the pretty young guard, but it was too hot and he did not want to make any noise.

-

The soft glow of the early morning saw a number of convicts stood out in the courtyard. They were chained, of course, but they were not the main attention of the guards. He could see a number of men being pushed into the yard. 

They were a rabble; some well dressed, some in rags, as though they had been picked out at random. There was about ten in total. Valjean glanced around at the guards, wondering what was going on. He watched as a magistrate was led into the yard, several large guards that did not work in Toulon surrounding him.

“Kneel.” The magistrate shouted.

The convicts were not forced to their knees, but the men before them were. Valjean froze in a strange fascination as he watched the slim back of a uniformed guard kneel.

“You are suspected of being lost souls. You will be tested, and those who are shall spend the remainder of their lives here.”

Wanderers. He looked at the backs of the men, at felt a great sadness. 

He stood and watched as the men were questioned; slowly and one by one. Name, age, occupation. Some gave statements that seemed to match who they were; some gave statements that betrayed their clothing, their stance, the lines in their face.

He gasped as the guard was forced to his feet, and led to stand before everyone. It was Javert. He was forced to drink from the same cup as the other men.

“Name?” 

Javert was staring at them with large wide eyes, frozen in place. One of the guards hit him in stomach with a truncheon. 

“Name?”

“Maximus Decimus Meridus.”

“Age?”

“Which age?” Javert’s voice was harsh; angry.

“Age?”

“Currently 21 years of age.”

“How long since you were born?” the man questioning him seemed most irritated, his patience already worn thin from questioning the other men.

“Shit... Umm...”

“Now.”

“I’m working it out!” Javert seemed to be annoyed as well, though Valjean could understand why he would be. “It has been one thousand, six hundred and fifty four years since I was born... I think... I know what year people say Marcus Aurelius died. I am pretty sure on my age when he died, so...”

Valjean stared in silence at him, shocked. There was a silence from the interrogator and the entire courtyard. 

“W-what was your occupation?”

“I am a prison guard. I have been a farmer, a thief, a crusader. I was a sailor, a soldier, a-”

“At the time of your first death.”

“Oh. I was a gladiator.”

“A gladiator?” The magistrate spoke up, his voice coloured with shock.

“Yes.”

“You shall be made to relive the end of your first life. Back in line.”

Eyes followed Javert as he knelt back down, guards and convicts alike.

Valjean waited impatiently watching as he saw a woman approach the first man in line. She pressed her fingers to his forehead as she whispered something.

The convict gasped as he watched the man’s clothing change, the rags turning into pleated grey and red robes with red hose. They watched as another man in similar clothing seemed to step out of the thin air. They walked along, the scenery in the courtyard shifting. They were in a crowded street, people in doublets, hose, giornea with trims and ruffles. Valjean jumped, and moved backwards through someone. His yelp was drowned out by the noise of the crowd as they screamed. 

The man in the red and grey robes wailed, a large dagger sticking out his chest. The blood spread out rapidly as he dropped to his knees. A few moments later, the scenery faded and they were in the courtyard. The woman stepped calmly back and nodded her head; everyone else seemed shocked and horrified.

She turned to look at the magistrate. He nodded and she moved on. The next man she missed, as they had determined he was not a wanderer. The next man was shown to be in old fashioned clothing again, he also died a violent death.

Valjean watched as individual men died, most violently, but a few slowly, peacefully. Some drifted in and out of different scenarios, probably having various moments that led to their demise. Many spoke in foreign languages. When this happened then Arnaud, who stood in chains beside him, translated. He was a scholar, before he had been suspected of theft and imprisoned.

The woman stepped up to Javert and stretched out her fingers.

Javert filled out, his body thickening. Valjean stared as the man’s clothing changed to a blue, knee length tunic and boots. Over the top, he wore body armour, a shoulder strap and leather gauntlets. This, with the facial hair the boy did not normally have, made him appear amazingly attractive.

He watched as around them the air became humid and the courtyard changed into a ring of stone; an arena. He tried to catch what the people on the stone benches were shouting, but he could not quite make it out.

Javert, no. Maximus made his way forwards, a sword in one hand. He bowed slightly. Despite the roar of the crowd, convicts and jailers were silent.

The man raised his weapon and brought it down, slashing at the man, then punching him with his spare fist. He spun into a blow with the man behind him, quickly bringing him down as well; moving into the next attack without pause. Maximus brought his sword up with enough momentum to spray blood through the air. Then he stabbed the man and again, he moved on.

He ducked and cut his sword along the man’s torso, leaving a deep line of blood, before again, stabbing the man he fought.

As the gladiator straightened up, his face was hard, tense. He parried a blow and dodged another. Valjean realised that one of the two men attacking him was the first one to be punched. Maximus quickly sparred, and thrust his blade along the man’s chest. As he fell to his knees, Maximus turned to the final attacker.

He grabbed one of the fallen swords, twirling it in time with the sword in his other hand. He took a deep breath and moved forwards. A second later and the two swords were stuck in the opponent’s chest. He, too, fell to his knees. Maximus looked around, disgust on his face before moving to stand in front.

He removed both swords, swung them again and the head was severed. It rolled.

Maximus threw one of the swords up into what looked like the posh section of the arena. He paced the ground, still looking disgusted.  
“Nonne delectamini? Nonne delectamini? Nonne hoc est quare adsitis?”

Valjean quickly glanced at the man beside him, eyes still focussed on the man before him as he spat on the ground. The scenery began to change again as he heard the whisper:

“Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?”

They were clearly at the end of another battle. Around them lay the dead bodies of many, slaughtered. He watched as the gladiators in the middle were surrounded by soldiers. He began to edge forward, wanting to hear what was being said.

The gladiators all bowed as a man with golden laurels came out, a boy running along beside him. Valjean began trying to find a way to see what was happening encouraging those chained beside him to move as well. One of the gladiators turned his back on the man.

“Sclāvus!” The... emperor?... cried out. Valjean tried to think if it was the Romans that had had emperors. His knowledge on historical events and the old empires was not so good... They probably did have an emperor. The man hissed something else, but he missed it.

He was close enough to hear the reply. The man turned. It was Javert. He kept his eyes on the emperor as he spoke.

“Nomen mihi est Maximus Decimus Meridius.” His voice was loud and strong as he spoke, a glare on his face. “Praefectus Exercituum Borei, Praefectus Legionum Felicum, fidelis minister veri imperatoris Marci Aurelii. Pater filii occisi, coniux uxoris occisae. Et consequar meam ultionem in hac vita aut postera.”

One of the guards shouted something, but Valjean was too busy looking at Arnaud, wondering what had been spoken. Around them, everyone was shouting “Vivat!” but he only kept half an eye on them.

“He told them his name to start with. Then, something about his rank, an army general, I think.” Cheering erupted around them, as the man once again turned to leave.

“What else?”

“Father to a murdered son. Husband to a murdered wife. Then, something about this life or the after, he will gain vengeance for them. But... I could not hear properly, and I do not get many chances to practise my Latin here.”

The place was changing again, back to another arena.

“I am starting to feel a great deal of sympathy with these slaves. Everywhere looks the same.” Off to the side, he could hear Alexis whispering.

Maximus now had a sword and a shield; he was wearing the same body armour as before, with two horses on it. He rubbed his fingers in the dirt before straightening up, and the gladiator he was to fight shouted something at the emperor.

“We who are about to die salute you.” Came the whisper beside him.

“Slightly morbid.” He murmured back, causing Arnaud to grin.

The large man kicked dust up into Javert- No. Maximus’ face and the fight began.

Almost immediately, Maximus was knocked down, and he rolled away in time to avoid a tiger. 

“A tiger?” He hissed, “As though a fight to the death is not enough?”

He got no response from the men who were watching the gladiators thrust and parry as they moved lightly across the arena floor. Maximus was kicked in the chest, and he went rolling away. Barely up, he dived to avoid another blow, and then rolled to avoid a tiger.

“How is this entertaining? It’s horrible!”

Valjean did not know if he wanted to watch the tigers, struggling against those holding their chains or an older version of his favourite guard trying to survive. Maximus dodged another blow, but before he could fight back, and tiger jumped at him.

He beat it off with his shield, and rapidly went back to defending himself. He dropped his shield, but managed to remove one of the weapons from the other man’s hands. Sweat dripped down his face as he tossed the sword lightly from one hand to the other. He was still beautiful, but now he seemed so much more deadly than the skinny young guard with bright eyes did.

Another tiger threw itself at Maximus, but he spun and it fell on his weapon. The fall brought Maximus down as well, and as he stabbed it some more, the other fighter moved in. He shifted the tiger slightly, not quite managing to throw it off as he tried to defend himself from the blows raining down from above. The fingers of his other hand scrambled for grip on his shield, and as his sword was halted under a boot, he brought the shield up to hit the man with.

A yell later, and the man had his own weapon through his foot and Maximus stood to kick him over. The crowd was roaring loudly again, their bloodthirsty desire for death evident. It sickened Valjean. He was pleased this was not an issue in present day France.

As Maximus stared up at the young emperor again, Valjean looked at him. It appeared as though he had lost some of his bulk, perhaps he was not eating as well. He looked very young as he stood; staring up at the box, though he could not be more than a few years older than Valjean was now.

As he showed a measure of mercy, and dropped the weapon he held, the scene shifted to somewhere darker. Maximus stood, his arms shackled, quietly responding to the boastful emperor dressed in white. They were barely there a moment as the scene shifted back outside, into yet another arena, but it was enough for Valjean to see Maximus stabbed by the angry man.

The purple soldiers were stood in a ring, and in their centre stood Maximus and the emperor. Valjean could already see the blood seeping into the blue tunic the slave wore. 

“This is not a fair match.” He whispered, as he watched Maximus rub the dirt in his fingers, then move to pick up his sword.

The blows delivered were fast and aggressive. Maximus keeping up, even while keeping one arm pinned to his side. The anger in the emperor’s face was horrible, but Valjean already held the opinion that power and the pursuit of power could corrupt anyone. It seemed this was a constant, even back to the days of the Romans.

Maximus swept the other’s feet from under him, but the next blow missed. His tunic was definitely red now, it was spreading rapidly. The gladiator backed away, curling in on himself as his blood began to move down his leg. The emperor attacked again. Maximus pushed him back, and with a slash, he disarmed him. 

The emperor looked around shouting at his guards. Valjean’s attention was focussed on Maximus as he wavered on his feet, staring at something that was not there. He limped slightly, and then dropped his weapon. He stretched out his hand, reaching for something. Valjean realised that _this_ probably was the final part of this man’s life. He would not leave here.

“He is asking for a sword.” 

But even as Arnaud spoke, the man had pulled a dagger out of the gauntlet. Maximus dodged, and then back fisted the man. He forced the blade to point at his attacker, and as he flailed, he slit his throat. Maximus pushed the dagger in further.

The emperor, dressed in white and now splashed with red, dropped to the ground. Maximus had a dazed look upon his face as his hand went out again.

“Maximus! Maximus.”

“Quintus.” He spoke up again, in response to the man, but Valjean could see that his eyes were trying to view his afterlife.

He watched as Maximus gave orders, and then dropped to the ground. A beautiful young woman, wrapped in gold, ran forwards and fell to her knees beside him.

“I wonder who she is.” Arnaud muttered beside him.

“What is she saying?”

“I cannot hear.”

They watched as she curled in on herself, sobbing. The scene faded and the courtyard reappeared.

No one spoke up. It was not the longest death they had seen for anyone, but it had easily been the most violent. 

 

At the end of the line, Javert fell to his knees and vomited.


	5. Chapter 5

Javert was sat in a cell, his stomach churning. He had been discovered. He looked around at the men in the cell with him. He felt sick. The law was wrong. The idea was horrible, and Javert wanted to cry. He had always tried to follow the law. He had, admittedly, judged people on their abilities to follow the law. The law was wrong and he felt sick. He was dishonourable.

“Put your head between your knees, son. Take some deep breaths. You look like you will be sick.” One of the older men sat down on the floor beside him, rubbing his back.

“Wrong... everything is wrong...”

“Shh...” The man did not deny his statement though. “What’s your name, son?”

“I am Javert. I am... I _was_ a guard at this prison.”

“A guard?” the cry came from a well dressed man, who kept looking at a gem encrusted pocket watch at the back of the cell. “You barely look old enough to have finished schooling.”

“Not all of us have the money to attend school and eat, bastard!” hissed another man.

As an argument broke out, Javert raised his head to look at the man beside him. “What is your name, monsieur?”

“Andre, my boy. Keep up your deep breaths, you’re still grey.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir? I’m just a farmer, boy.”

“Hey! Stop that!” A guard had come to the cell bars. Javert looked up. It was Pierre, he was glaring at the men arguing, but when he looked down at the young man sat by the bars, he smiled slightly.

The guard crouched down.

“How you doing, Javert?”

“I... I don’t... I am fine.”

“Try not vomit, alright? They’re not going to move anyone yet, even if you do.”

“Yeah. Are we... being moved into cells soon?”

“Yes. You are all lifers, but you are being put in the general population.”

“Really...”

“Yes. I’m trying to move people around, get you in a cell with some of the less violent ones.”

“Always the violent ones with gaps in their cells.”

“Yes,” laughed the man, “I’m going to move 22837, Benoît; you’ll be in a cell with three men who are bigger than you, but they aren’t too bad.”

“Right.” He doubted that, but it was nice of him to pretend.

“Right.” Echoed Pierre, softly. “You’ll be moved in the morning.”

-

As the soft glow of the morning penetrated the small gap of the window, Javert was standing up to move. His stomach once again churning, he stared resolutely at the floor. Pierre must have been doing a double shift to see him moved, because he was there; as was Gaétan, though the man really did not like Javert.

He was one of the first to be marched to the cell, but went without any objections, taking his walk of shame through the halls he once guarded. He was taken into a small room to change out of his blue uniform, and into a red one. The change was quick, and he was moved again.

“Inside!” snapped Gaétan, “Now!” 

He pushed the young man inside, and Javert managed to raise his eyes to view his cellmates. Alexis, a young man about 5 years older than Javert, who was generally quite agreeable, until his temper snapped; Tristan, an older man, about the age of Javert’s mother, who was in for theft; Valjean, a man about eleven years older than Javert, and also in for theft.

He turned back to stare at the two guards.

“You are here for life, 28643. You will obey all the rules. Failure to do this will result in punishment. Is this understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, _sir_!” hissed Gaétan, and he brought down his truncheon. “You will be respectful.”

Javert let out a yelp, as the object was brought down on his arm. “Yes, sir.” He said, clearly to avoid anyone hit.

Gaétan turned and left angrily. Pierre stayed back for a moment, moving to stand beside the ex-guard. “Don’t worry, friend. I shall try to help you.”

“Don’t. You will just get in trouble for it.” he mumbled back. Pierre gazed at him with sad eyes, before pulling him forward into a hug.

“I will do what I can. Gaétan is just a bitter man because someone as beautiful as you turned him down.”

Javert snorted, a smile twitching. “Thanks... Friend.”

Pierre smiled, but left. Javert took a deep breath and turned to face the other men.

“Guard!” hissed Alexis, angrily at the same time as Valjean mumbled “Javert.”

“You were the gladiator, yes?” Tristan stepped forward, not smiling at him, but his expression was not unfriendly.

“I was.” He replied, nerves filling his body with tension.

“A slave?” asked Valjean.

“Yes.”

The men watched him, and Javert felt like an outsider. He sighed softly, and scrubbed at his face with his hands.

“Did you really kill all those men?” Alexis was staring at him, not smiling either, but his eyes were curious and his face was not unkind.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

“... Unpleasant.”

“You do not talk a lot, do you, boy?” Tristan had stepped in.

“There is not much to say.” Javert softly replied. He did not like being imprisoned, but he understood the importance of peaceful coexistence in close confinement. 

“Fair enough, boy. That bunk is yours, top bed.” Javert nodded his head. Alexis threw himself down onto the other bunk, rolling over enough for Tristan to sit beside him. Valjean sat down on the bed beneath Javert’s.

The young man simply stood, unsure of what to say. 

“Come here.” Muttered Valjean. He leaned forward and grasped Javert’s sleeve, pulling the man onto the bed beside him.

“I...don’t...”

“Oh, relax!” Came the exasperated cry from Alexis, “We aren’t going to bite your head off if you settle in.”

“He has a point, boy.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Whispered Javert, jerkily. “It is just that... I don’t... I’ve been arrested- for life!”

He could not believe it. The law was not right, because he was not here justly. He had not come back to take someone’s life. 

He thought about his wife, his son. It was so many years since he had seen them. He wanted to see them. Not yet? But how much longer did he have to wait. Would they still be waiting? Did he want them to still be waiting? The idea that they were now happy in Elysium was far more pleasant.

Would they be happy without him? Selfishly, he hoped not, but in more ways, he hoped so. He had loved so many people as he had his wife and son. Somehow, he knew they had been fine without him. 

He felt more alone than he ever had; even sat in this small cell with three other men, even having had so many families... Javert felt alone, and miserable for it.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite himself, Valjean felt a deep stab of sympathy for the ex-guard who had been placed in their cell. Javert was skinny, with smooth skin and long limbs. He attracted far more attention now he was in with the prison population than he ever had as a guard.

Valjean watched the boy in the mess, curling into himself to try to avoid being seen; outside, he managed to hide in shadows, very effective at disappearing. During times when they had to do their work, the boy gained a lot of attention. The boy had originally been made to break stones. It involved using a sledge hammer to break up the stone into chipping small enough to fit down the hole in the basin the used. Javert had not been terribly successful at it; tiring quickly with his face flushed a deep red.

The thief considered the view most attractive, and he was aware he was not the only one. The other convicts enjoyed shouting at the boy, telling him to strip down so he did not overheat. Valjean could understand why the only concession to the heat the boy was willing to make was to remove his hat. The heat may be uncomfortable, but the young man did not like the convicts looking at him, and so often received mocking for being a shy wallflower. 

The guards had quickly realised Javert could not keep up with the amount of work needed in stone breaking, and he was moved to shifting the buckets filled with chippings over to the shed to be used for road building. It still made the boy sweat, but now he had to get close to the other convicts as well. They jeered and taunted him, a few even pulling the boy against their chest and whispering in his ear.

Valjean tasted a bitter anger whenever he observed this. He did not want them touching the other, and he knew Javert did not like their attentions either. On a night, he listened to the boy shift and turn, unable to sleep. Whether his insomnia came from the heat of summer, the stress of imprisonment, or the fear or the convicts, Valjean did not know. After a month of listening to it, he found he did not care.

“Boy.” He hissed one night. There came no answer, though Javert stilled for a moment.

Checking that no one was by their cell door, Valjean stood up. He turned to look at the boy, reaching up to place a hand on his arm. “Boy.”

“What?” whispered Javert, turning his body to face Valjean. The light was too faint for him to make out the boy’s expression though.

“Stand up.” 

“What?”

“Stand up.” He tugged the blanket off him, and pulled the younger one off the bed. Once Javert was stood beside him, Valjean pushed him onto his bed.

“What are you doing?” Hissed Javert, irritation in his voice. Valjean dropped himself down into the bed, rolling the young man over and curling into his back.

“Go to sleep.”

“What?” Javert seemed quite annoyed, but Valjean bit his shoulder, trying to use force to settle the boy without having to move from his comfortable position.

“You do what I tell you, and those men will start to leave you alone.” He whispered into Javert’s ear.

“I can handle myself.” 

“Really. You must enjoy being pressed up against them in such a manner then.”

There was silence for a moment, then a soft, “I do not.”

“Lie with me then. You haven’t yet figured out how to live as part of the prison population, and it won’t be long before one of those men decides to have you.” He felt Javert tense up at those words, so he began to rub a hand over the boy’s stomach in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

“I’ll take care of you, only if you take care of me.” It was wrong to demand this of someone, he knew. He found it difficult to care though. He could not leave Javert to face the other men alone, they would destroy him; and it had been so long since he had last has a hand in getting off, he did not want to miss the opportunity.

“I... Well- I...” Stuttered Javert, clearly thrown by the idea. Valjean ground his hips into the boy’s arse a few times, before settling down.

“It’s decided then. Now go to sleep.” 

Javert remained tense against him for some time, before allowing his body to relax into the embrace of Valjean’s body.

It was not until a week later that Valjean had to ‘take care’ of Javert. He had looked up from breaking stone again to see the boy exchanging blows with one of the other men. Valjean would have left the boy to it, he was holding his own quite well, however du Vale was sneaking up behind him.

Valjean threw himself into the fray, using his strength to throw the others off his boy.

“He is mine!” he snarled, and the men paused a moment.

Du Vale did not let the display frighten him though, and he shoved Javert over one of the basins, pressing his hips against the boy. Javert kicked back, striking his knee, and Valjean threw a punch, knocking the man to the ground. 

Javert stood proud and tall beside Valjean; his face was pale and he trembled slightly, but he hid it well. Two guards came over, and they separated Javert to speak quietly with him. Valjean wondered what the boy would tell them...

They came over to remove the two men who had been bothering Javert, leaving Valjean alone.

“Thank you.” Mumbled Javert, though he did not look at the older man when he spoke.

Valjean simply nodded his head. He did not speak a word about the incident for the rest of the day, but that night he brought it up.

“Javert?” he muttered, speaking into the boy’s ear to be heard of the noise of Tristan and Alexis fucking.

“What?” whispered Javert back to him.

“You owe me payment for today.” He stated. Javert turned over to glare at him.

“I did not ask for your assistance. I would have managed!”

“You would not.” He responded, pressing a hand to the boy’s shoulder, pushing him back into the bed. “They would have easily overpowered you. Burnier is a challenge enough without du Vale. Together, they would have had you on the ground and fucked you raw. I deserve some thanks.”

“I gave you my thanks. What could you possibly want now?” the boy glared up at him, but the anger did not seem so genuine. The boy may have been a fighter in a past life or two, but here he was still quite small and weak. Valjean was aware he was not eating enough to gain much strength. It seemed even Javert knew he would have lost today, though he would not admit it.

“I want you to actually lie comfortably beside me. You tense up as though I am some repulsive creature every time I touch you. Sleep properly next to me, on me, near me... however suits you. But first, I want a kiss.”

Javert gave him a startled look, as though he had expected worse. The young man gave a hesitant nod and Valjean lowered himself to lie over him.

When their lips met, Valjean felt his heart shift. The soft mouth before his, the little pants of breath that were relaxing out into longer moans, the tongue that jumped back at the touch of his own. He wanted Javert. The thief pressed his body down onto the ex-guard’s and licked out every inch of his mouth. His nose kept bashing awkwardly against Javert’s, but he did not stop. He laid claim to the warm cavern, wishing the light was bright enough that he could see the face he devoured.

He suckled on the lower lip, trying to stop his hips from rocking, not wanting to scare the boy away just yet. He pulled back to bite just below Javert’s ear. The boy whimpered and thrust his hips upward; Valjean grinned at the discovery and mercilessly ravished the skin. Then he tongued the salty drops off Javert’s neck and grazed his teeth along the spot. Eventually, he bit it properly, determined to leave a mark to warn other people off.

He could feel the muscles in Javert’s thighs clenching around his hips, and he moved one hand to rub gently up and down them. Once he was confident the mark would be obvious, Valjean pulled away and settled down onto his back.

A few minutes later, Javert filled out the rest of Valjean’s desire, curling up on top of his chest to sleep like an overgrown cat. The warmth and the weight were comforting, Valjean dropped off just minutes later.


	7. Chapter 7

Javert learnt to work in silence. He still received shouts and jeers, but the marks Valjean left upon his skin stopped the convicts from trying to get any closer. Valjean demanded kisses in return, but the young man was thankful he had not asked for anything more; he had never been into any kind of voyeurism, so having intercourse with the man while Tristan and Alexis were there was not even remotely arousing. He did not mind so much if people were there, but he did not want people to see his body.

Valjean did not intimidate the guards in the same way as he did the convicts. Gaétan was an unpleasant man who had taken a certain liking to Javert when he had started working in the prison. The older man had spent many evenings trying to convince the new guard to share his bed, and Javert had always refused.

Now that he wore the clothing of a convict, Gaétan had decided his free will did not count. The man took opportunities to corner him. The time Valjean had tried to defend Javert; he had received a lashing for ‘defiance’. The idea was laughable; Valjean was actually quite easy going. 

Javert enjoyed his nights cuddled up against Valjean. The nights were finally cooling, autumn was arriving and Javert no longer felt too warm pressed up against another body. He enjoyed the way Valjean’s hands would roam over his body, occasionally skimming down along his buttocks, though the man never stayed there long, as though worried he would scare the young man.

Javert found he could not quite express his enjoyment though, it felt as though he may be taking things a little too far in doing so. Valjean was his protection, his body was the price. It was not as though they were courting in any manner and Javert really had to get the idea out of his head. Valjean did not help him in his actual work, did not save him a place at meals, and did not ask his opinion. 

At night, he dreamed of his home, not in this life, but in his first. He dreamed of the hot streets of Rome, of the arena, where people cheered for him, of the bodies he had struck down... Actually viewing the violence of his first life had been horrible. He had never thought about the acts he had performed; though he remembered questioning how people could enjoy viewing them, his conscience had never been bothered that he had slaughtered so many people.

Between one life and the next, things changed. It was never enough to make him an entirely different person, but things changed; Hair colour, temperament, on several memorable occasions – gender, but he had never had so much trouble with his conscience. Javert now had the idea of right and wrong firmly in his head, and murder of any form was wrong. He couldn’t even seem to handle the idea of a death sentence. It had, unfortunately, resulted in him vomiting after reliving it. To watch himself thoughtlessly swing a weapon, to end the lives of so many people, then to see himself die... it had been too much.

The memories of his first life seemed to have broken the dam though. At night, he dreamt of the past. He often woke in the night, and to feel of Valjean’s arms upon him was oddly comforting. He tended to burrow into those arms, to sniff in the sweaty scent of the convict. He rather liked it, but he was thankful Valjean slept through his nightmares. It would be awkward to explain.

He slept every night beside Valjean though, his bed remained untouched. Valjean was still quite an angry man, but Javert began to notice more moments of kindness. Perhaps there really was another problem with the system, it seemed to corrupt even the best of men, it was draining. It made his stomach clench horribly when he considered that the system was wrong. In this life so far, he had trusted in the system. He had always believed the police were good people who only wanted to help; but now he found that belief difficult to hang to. 

Gaétan was corrupt, this he knew from the way he kept cornering Javert. He seemed to view it as his right to do with the convicts as he liked. The man worried Javert, and he wondered how long it would be until the man made good on his promise to have him. He did not want to fight the man, he would just receive a lashing for it, but he did not want to let the breast to take his body. It made him feel weak to rely on Valjean to defend him from this, but Gaétan was large. Larger than Valjean, far larger than Javert. He was not sure how to defend himself against him, and he did not even know if Valjean could manage it.

The first chance Javert saw to escape, he hurried back to Valjean. He understood why men would try to leave the place, but he could not go alone; the wall was too high. One of the guards had had some kind of fit, and there was a loud commotion going on. The wall was left alone, seeming too high for people to get over, but Javert believed that with Valjean he could manage it.

“Here,” whispered Javert, “I can’t quite get myself up.”

“Help me up first. I can pull you up from the top.” Javert stared at the man for a moment, before nodding. He spread his knees and leaned slightly against the wall, locking his fingers together. Valjean stepped a muddy boot into his hands and was quickly up the wall. Javert ignored the burst of jealousy he felt watching the man scale it so easily; instead he reached up a hand for Valjean to grab and used the man’s strength to struggle up the wall.

“Come, hurry.” Valjean whispered. He jumped down the wall, rolling when he reached the bottom. Javert followed, but he tumbled down and fell awkwardly on his leg. He just stopped the yelp, but he could not get back up.

“Javert? Are you alright?” Valjean ducked down beside him, but he simply whimpered. “Your leg... it is broken.”

“I’m sorry.” Valjean could still escape, but Javert would just slow them down. “Go. I won’t tell them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t leave you.” Javert managed a slight smile, but the pain was bad, and his stomach was churning, threatening to expel the broth they had had that morning. “I’ll carry you.”

“What?” But Valjean crouched down and manoeuvred Javert onto his back. It was painful, but it was acceptable. As they hurried away to the cover of the trees, every step sent jolts of pain through his leg.

Javert pressed his face into the back of Valjean’s shoulder, trying to breathe properly. His vision was going blurry though, and he could not tell if he was making noise or not. He shifted more firmly on the man’s back and passed out.


	8. Chapter 8

Two nights on the run and Valjean was feeling tired. He was nervous, he was tense and he was worried. Javert was not doing well. They were trying to keep his leg still, to keep it from jostling, but it was rather unavoidable. Javert spent the day upon Valjean’s back, completely unable to put weight on the break. This inactivity did not encourage sleep, and he was apparently suffering from nightmares as well, as Valjean had found out when he had shaken the whimpering young man awake one night; ending up on his back with Javert over him, one arm pressed to his neck for a long moment. The rush from sleeping to waking had filled Javert with energy, but when that had ebbed away; he had fallen on the older man’s chest with pain on his face.

They were making their way to a small town. He did not know where they were, but he did not care. They just needed somewhere quiet to rest, where Javert could get his leg properly bound up, and then they could get a decent meal, a decent sleep and be on their way.

This did not seem likely to happen though, unless they got a change of clothing. He was hoping that by following the small river, they would come across some clothing that had been washed and had been left to dry. He had mentioned this to his companion, but the other had simply snapped back at him with little interest.

Valjean did not know why he was bringing Javert with him. They had had a deal, but it had been a ‘while in Toulon’ type deal. He had been surprised when the ex-guard had come back for him when he had seen his chance to leave, perhaps he had not had the confidence to try it alone, or perhaps he has not thought he could scale the wall alone... regardless, they owed each other no debt any longer, so he was not required by duty or obligation to keep them together at all. 

Valjean looked down at the young man. He really was young, little more than a child. Valjean was thirty two, and he felt so much older than this... boy! This child, with his pale face and long lashes, with his soft skin and his trusting nature, he was so different to anyone Valjean had seen recently, yet untainted by that pit called prison. He had made them head back for a day, to collect a box that was buried out there. He had had a knapsack inside it, but he had not allowed Valjean to see the rest of the contents; when asked he simply blushed and scowled angrily. He had no right to be so beautiful even when annoyed, but the young man simply was.

Every time one of them went to sleep, or for a nap, he still pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Valjean’s lips. Valjean had pointed out they were no longer imprisoned, and he did not need to continue to do so. Javert had smirked at him in response and told him he would get nowhere if it weren’t for the other, therefore he was to give some form of payment. Valjean had battled a grin at this. Such a weak excuse – perhaps Javert enjoyed touching their lips together as much as Valjean did.

Javert continued to sleep, unaware of the racing thoughts of his companion. It was late in the evening, and Valjean had stopped what felt like several hours ago. He would let the boy rest as long as he could, then their roles would switch, and Javert could keep watch. He despaired of what they would do further down the line though. How long could they run? How well could they hide? They had no papers... Valjean was strong, still young enough to get a job, be it as a farmer, or as a gardener, any kind of job... Javert’s leg would heal, and he was young, not particularly strong, but his body could adapt to almost any work really... but with no papers... 

And then there was the matter of Javert’s arm. His upper left arm had SPQR tattooed upon it. He would be spotted as a wanderer in a minute if he stripped down, or even wore a shorted-sleeved shirt. Valjean rubbed his hand along that arm, over where the tattoo would be...

This child... this old soul... Valjean prayed to God that he would be able to rest, that he would eventually find some peace... How could he rest, though, when it was a crime for him to even exist? Perhaps they could have another revolution, or gain a new king, a new government... something that would retract this law...

“What are you thinking about?” the slurred voice spoke up from the region of his thighs.

“Our future, I’m afraid.” He whispered back; uncomfortable, even with just the owls for company.

“Oh...”

“And... your past...” he wanted so desperately to ask, to learn about who Javert had been...

“What is it you want to know?” Javert shifted up slightly, so he was leaning against Valjean’s chest. He never seemed to make much movement anymore, but maybe that was to avoid harming his leg.

“Your tattoo...” He did not quite know what he wanted to ask about it, but he hoped Javert would understand.

“It was important to me because it defined who I was. I started a farmer. I became a soldier, and then I made my way up to general. That tattoo is a mark from that time.”

“A soldier...” He could see it, actually. Javert was good at giving orders, in an older body, he would be more commanding.

“SPQR... It stands for Senatus Populusque Romanus.”

“What does that even mean?” His Latin had not improved since they had observed the revelation of the wanderers’ pasts.

“The senate and the people of Rome... It was an identifying mark, to show who I was.”

“Who you were?” He had not expected answers from the usually tight-lipped young man, so he could not seem to hold back his tongue from asking questions.

“Yes.” Javert rubbed his face into Valjean’s chest as he sighed. “It defined me later as well. I was the general who became a slave, the slave who became a gladiator. I removed it with a sharp stone, but it still defined who I was. When I was born again, it was on my flesh. Forever there...”

Javert sighed again, but this time he slumped tiredly against Valjean. The older man did not know what to say, so he pressed a kiss to Javert’s head.

“Yet, you are still you, whoever you were before.” 

“Thank you. There are those who do not understand the fine line between whom I was and who I am. People expect me to be fully who I am now, as though my past is just a fanciful dream, and there are those, such as Napoleon apparently, who cannot accept I am not entirely who I was, down to political views and loyalties.”

“So... You keep the essence of who you were?” He did not really understand it, but he had not lived more than this life...

“Yes. I was born again; I have had to learn to walk, to talk again. I have had to learn how to run, to write, to think... I have memories return to me, leaking in as though they had always been there, but I am still shaped by how I am raised. I still love my mother, even though I have had many others...”

Javert gave him a weak smile, and Valjean held him away enough to drop a kiss to his lips.

“Get a little more sleep. I shall wake you later to keep watch. Tomorrow, we can try that nearby village. Perhaps we will find someone kind.” He smiled, with a hope he did not feel.

“And perhaps they will have a change of clothes.” Javert mumbled, as he settled down again.

Valjean gave a genuine smile: at least he was not alone.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry it has been so long; real life bombarded me for a while XP Hopefully can get on with writing again though._

\---

Their progress was slow. Javert’s leg was still very painful, but Valjean had seen a town in the distance. He had the money he had saved over the years stored in his box. Hopefully it would be enough for a doctor. Javert frowned slightly and shifted in his stolen garments. They would not stand out in these faded colours and he was aware they could go nowhere in the red clothes of the prison, but he felt miserable just considering the idea that they really were thieves now. 

They were currently moving down a steep bank. Javert was limping down using Valjean’s arm and a small branch to lean on. He did spend a good deal of time on the older man’s back, but it was extra weight going downhill and he could manage if they went carefully. At the bottom they joined a small trail that looked as though it was in frequent use by horses. It was just wide enough for the two men to shuffle along side by side.

“I need a rest.” His stomach was rolling horribly. They had barely eaten in the past few days, but they had not stopped. The lack of nutrition combined with the exercise and the pain of his leg meant the young man struggled to keep down even water from the river. The water was cleaner this high up than it was nearer the town, but he still detested it. The thought of curling up in a warm bed with actual food and some ale in his belly was wonderful and the only thing that kept him going.

“Sit.” Valjean dropped down beside him, wrapping an arm around him to try keep out the cold chill of approaching winter. Javert hated being treated as though he was some delicate woman, but he knew that he had limitations. He may be weak now, but he would have to be strong later.

The idea of weakness filled him with a fear he was almost too exhausted to deal with. His mother had never cared how he was or if he was ill. He had learnt that the ability to work and to earn your keep really was only the value people seemed to have these days. It was a sad occurrence that he had noticed far too often throughout his time on Earth. During the years he had lived he had realised that everyone based the value of their children on their ability to work rather than unconditionally on who they were. Children born into poorer families were one of many born to bring in money, and they were not all expected to survive. Children in richer families were heirs and the younger ones were there in case the eldest died. A constant...

Javert curled into Valjean’s chest, once again wishing he could remember enough to do something about his leg. The thing he always seemed to remember best from other lives was the languages he had learned. He did need to hear the words spoken again, but he picked them back up very well.

“Ready?” Valjean was a wonderfully patient man but even he knew they ought to get to the town before dark.

“No. But let’s move on anyway.” Valjean helped him up, those strong arms that the ex-guard had once fantasised about pulling him up and steadying him.

“I am carrying you.”

“No.” It was painful and he could manage well enough with help.

“We have a few hours of light left and you are slowing down. Get on.” The man gave him a dark scowl and Javert hissed at him. They stood still and glared at each other for a few moments, before the reality of their situation sunk in. 

“Please...” muttered Valjean. Javert nodded his head, hating that he was so useless at everything, but unwilling to put the thought into words. Let Valjean just think he was stubborn, he would not openly admit to such insecurities. One awkward struggle later and they were heading down the path. 

“I do not mean to be a bother.” He breathed into Valjean’s ear sometime later.

“That’s fine.” Valjean responded, though there was still a hard edge to his voice. 

“Do you believe in God?” he wondered.

“What are you talking about, Javert?”

“Do you believe in God?” he repeated.

“Of course I do.”

“Do you believe he watches over us?”

“My sister used to say he has angels to do that for him.”

“Do you believe her?”

“She is my sister.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I like to think he watches over us, but I find it difficult to believe.”

“Why?”

“You are like a child with all these questions!” snapped the man, but Javert silently waited for an answer. “If he watches over us, and if he loves us, he should protect us, as though he is our Father, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do we suffer so?”

“Perhaps it is to reach salvation. This world bases our worth on what we can do, and how well we work. I like to think that God bases our worth on how well we can love, regardless of our situations; on how much hope and trust we have in Him.”

“Thought about this much, Javert?” The words were likely meant to be sarcastic, but Valjean sounded more curious.

“Yes. I have seen many different religions and beliefs. This one, for me, holds the most truth. I find the command ‘Love one another as I have loved you; Love your neighbour as yourself’ to be good guidelines.”

“Perhaps.” Valjean glanced back slightly at him. “You have a tendency to be harsh with yourself though, sometimes to the point it seems unfair. I have not seen your interact with the general population though, so I cannot say how equal you are in your treatment of everyone.”

Javert tried to smile, but failed. He wanted to explain how he had always believed in the law, how he had based his earthly life on how well people obeyed the law. He wanted to explain he had recently found it lacking... Instead, the young man pressed his face into the sweat skin of Valjean’s neck. How could he explain what he did not fully understand himself?

He was still awake when they reached the town. The sun had set, but the town had lanterns brightening the place.

“Shall we look for an inn?” Whispered Valjean, but Javert simply murmured in reply. He felt unwell again, and did not want to move. His legs were numb and his eyes were heavy...

“Javert?”

“Mmm...” Despite the cold night, it was very warm. If he could move well enough to loosen his clothing, he would.

“I’ll find us an inn and then a doctor.” Valjean’s voice held an odd tone but the breeze felt wonderfully cool against his face. “Did you say you have some money?”

“Mmm... In my box.” Valjean shifted him slightly higher up his back with a grunt. It was good; his neck was now free to have the cool air drift across it.

Too soon, they were inside. Valjean bickered quietly with an innkeeper, but Javert simply tucked his face back into the man’s neck.

 

\---

“Your leg is swollen, quite badly.” Valjean’s soft voice was further away than he had expected. Javert forced his eyes open to see the man kneeling by his side. He was lay out on a bed.

“Valjean...” He breathed. He was so cold.

“The doctor has been sent for, but I removed your trousers... There is a clear liquid pouring from the cuts in your leg.” The man looked worried. Javert wanted to speak up, to comfort a man who really shouldn’t care if he was unwell. He lifted his arms slightly, and that seemed to be enough for the other, he pressed his hot body closer, covering Javert’s shivers with his furnace of a chest.

“Valjean... You are worth... a lot.” It felt necessary to explain this to a man who had been underappreciated. What if he had not noticed the way the world worked? He worked hard and caused little bother, he was of high value. He had committed a crime, and that value had been stripped of him. Javert felt it was important the man knew he was worth something.

He fell asleep before he could explain.


	10. Chapter 10

Valjean kept up his silent vigil. He watched as Javert lay on the bed, face paler than the blankets surrounding him. He watched as the wanderer squirmed in his sleep, his fever too high for him to get some decent rest. It had been a few days since they had arrived in the town, but he seemed to be improving from when they had first gotten here.

The doctor had come and gone, leaving behind a small amount of medicine; he claimed it would start to clear up the infection, but the men did not have enough money to afford a full batch. Valjean had felt the anger ripple through him. How monstrous that man was; he could clearly see the young man suffering and he did not care.

“Ab imo pectore...” Whispered Javert. Valjean looked up at him to see those fever bright eyes focussed on him again. This sudden change to Latin, while frustrating, had happened during the doctor’s visit. It had confused both the men for a moment when the boy on the bed suddenly switched language, but the doctor had claimed ‘delirium’ often came with high temperatures.

Valjean just supposed it was easier to speak in the first language you knew when you felt unwell. The older man desperately wished he had learnt Latin though; Javert kept focussing comments on him and he had no idea what the boy was talking about.

He was just a boy though. Lying flat on this bed with his hair curling with the sweat it soaked up, Javert looked very young. Valjean got up and dunked a cloth into the bowl of water. It was not particularly clean, but the water was still fairly cool.

“Shhh, it’s fine boy. You get some rest.”

Javert moaned lightly, twisting up to meet Valjean’s hand. He clasped a hand weakly around his wrist.

“Vitam aeteram.” He mumbled, and then started giggling. Valjean understood that one though. ‘Life everlasting’ was a common phrase in Mass. 

“I am sure it does feel like a long time, but you are not ready to join a new one yet. Are you awake enough for some medicine? Here, I’ll help you swallow.”

The young man managed to swallow some without spilling it, but he collapsed into Valjean once it was down.

“Let’s get you lying down again.” He muttered, but the boy slung his arms around his shoulders and pressed close to his chest. Valjean smiled slightly, dropping a kiss to the thick, sweaty hair. “In a minute then.”

“Thank you.” Breathed Javert, and a large grin came over the convict’s face. 

“Get some sleep.”

\---

In the cold light of the morning, Valjean looked at Javert’s box again. Now that the boy was sleeping comfortably, some things struck him as odd. First were the cards. There was a stack of cards inside, bound up with string. He had not looked at them individually, having seen only the top one; an old man with L’ERMITE written across the bottom.

He wanted to ask even more about the phials inside. One had been opened at some point, the wax seal on it broken; around the edge was a viscous substance. Valjean recognised it as the type of oil his cell mates had often tried to barter for. The type necessary for... penetration. He flushed.

It felt wrong to imagine Javert using the oil when he was lying sick upon a bed; to imagine the boy on his back, the oil slick on his fingers... where those fingers would go. He resisted a moan, trying to clear his thoughts. He tried not to imagine that oil on his own fingers; his own fingers in between the young man’s legs.

Valjean stood up and went to stand by the window, his blood racing fiercely. He let out a long breath. He ought to wait till Javert was better to ask about such things.

“Valjean?” He heard his name called gently.

“Javert? How are you feeling?” 

“Valjean?”

“Would you like some food?”

“Cold.”

“We can sort that in a minute. You need to eat first, then I’ll change the cloth on your leg; the doctor left me some fresh ones.”

Javert smiled, nodding his head and sitting up. 

“I feel better.”

“You have been out for two days.”

“Oh.”

“Come here.” He muttered leaning down to press a kiss to his lips.

“You waited here with me?”

“Where else would I go? You are here.”

Javert flushed slightly but said nothing else, accepting the bowl of broth, cold though it was.

“Do you...” began Javert as he put the bowl down, “What are we going to do next?”

“Wait for you to improve... After that, I am not sure. We can’t wait too long in case they start looking for us.”

“Oh.” 

“Any ideas?”

“I can have a look later.” But Javert settled back down, eyes falling shut as the fell back to sleep.

Valjean put the bowl back on the table and gave a last glance at the sleeping man before heading out the room. He headed out into the town to look around – perhaps he could find someone to hire him for a few days.

“Please,” he spoke to an elderly woman by the church, “do you know where I may find some work?”

“What is it you are looking for, boy?” She looked up at him with a kindly expression.

“Boy? I’m 32... But, pruning, gardening. Oh, I can do heavy work as well.”

“I can give you a few days, but nothing more. You’ll have to look elsewhere after.”

“Thank you.”

He went back to her home and took note of what she was wanting. It was nothing difficult, even though it had been more than 7 years since he had last done such work.

“Thank you for hiring me. Thank you greatly. I am afraid I must leave though, as my friend is ill.”

“Of course. I shall expect you in the morning.” She then watched him leave with a smile.


	11. Chapter 11

_I am sorry it took me so long to update my stories. I broke my laptop and had to buy a new one._

\---

They stayed a fortnight. With the help of the doctor, Javert’s leg cleared up. The doctor had bled him once, to bring his high fever back down, and Javert had slept a long while after that, though he had looked more refreshed when he woke up.

Valjean was very aware that they were staying too long though. They really could not stay any longer because the towns near to Toulon would be searched first for the missing convicts. The boy had taken to standing by the window and watching people go about their everyday lives. It had hit him hard that he was now a convict for life and could not go about the population as he had.

Valjean had tried to explain that he would have to go about as he normally would, that acting guilty would attract the wrong sort of attention, but the boy could not seem to help it, so he stayed inside.

However, once two weeks had passed, Valjean carved a pair of crutches for the boy, crude thought they were and they packed their knapsacks. They had both acquired clothing, though it was only one set. In the bags they packed a blanket each, some foods and some matches. Javert still had his box and they also had some mead. Their money was in a purse, wrapped in Valjean’s blankets.

The road was difficult for the ex-guard. It inclined steeply in places, and it was rocky and unstable. They were heading North-West, up into the Alps in the hope that the guards would not expend the effort of searching so far.

They settled in Chamonix, a small village close to the country’s border. It lay in the view of Mont Blanc, a large, beautiful mountain. One of the priests in the village had pointed out that you could feel the presence of God in such a place, and a week after they had arrived, nearly three weeks after they had left the first village, Valjean had decided to test this idea out.

He had left Javert in the village pub, with his crutches, a little money and a promise to be back at the latest tomorrow evening. They were renting a room out from a woman named Giselle. She was not the most cheerful person in the village, but her prices were fair and she like her renters to check in at night. She sent for the police if they did not come home and had not told her they would be out.

He took his own blanket, and Javert’s; they had newer blankets in their room and a Grandmère living in the room opposite theirs had taking a liking to Javert; she had given him a knitted blanket and was making him another. He had wrapped a thick coat around him, this actually belonged to the Grandmère’s husband, but he had told Valjean to borrow it while he climbed the mountain. They had both been confident that he would find God on the mountain, and he certainly hoped so.

He and Javert needed help and guidance. He did not know where to go from here, what they could do, how to make up for not having any papers and he was still unsure if they would be caught. 

The climb was cold. He had expected this. He had forgotten how hot he got climbing though. He frequently stopped to remove a layer, only to find a few minutes later he was shivering again. He stopped on a small rocky outcrop, taking the time to examine the view.

It was breathtaking. The sun glistened on the snow, making it shine up at him, he could spot another village near the base of another mountain and he could hear the sounds of life around him. He removed his knapsack and his coat, pulling out his blankets to sit on. Here; there was no need to climb to the summit, he would stop here. 

Already, he could understand why they were insisting God was here. The place was so vast, yet it filled him with a warmth he could not adequately describe. He shut his eyes and leaned back, allowing what heat remained in the sun to soak into him.

Valjean felt relaxed, as though someone were embracing him at long last; he even turned to relax into those arms, before realising there were not physically there. He had not thought he was so hungry that he was hallucinating... it did not concern him though. Sitting on this ledge, watching the sun traverse its well-trodden path across the sky had filled him with a deep peace.

As the evening wore on, Valjean sang Salve Regina. It was one of the few hymns he could remember, and sat up here he found he could not keep his voice within himself. He then sang Ave Verum Corpus. His voice was gruff, but it was one of the few beautiful songs he knew. In prison, men did not sing to God. In prison, Valjean had felt no need to sing to God; God had not helped him avoid the suffering. Now, in the beauty of the Alpine mountains, Valjean considered Javert’s comment from a few weeks ago.

God allowed suffering as a test; that He based salvation on how well people could love, how well they could trust and hope in Him. Perhaps it was true. In the Gospels, Valjean was sure it was usually the thieves and the outcasts that the Lord had saved. In fact, if memory served him correctly, it was a thief who had died on a cross beside the Lord, after being promised a place in paradise with Him.

His theft of bread would not be held against him....

He lay back, watching the stars blink into existence. He considered... 

God. Religion. He had had so many downs in his life; it was sometimes hard to believe there was a God who cared. However, there were also blessings. He and Javert had escaped Toulon with little trouble. It was true, the young man had broken his leg and an ill humour had gotten in, but he was recovering now. They had stayed in one village for a while, and then made good time up into the mountains. They had yet to go hungry...

In this, it was possible to believe someone watched out for them.

As he lay staring up, feeling himself get lost in the depth of the sky, a thought struck him. If he had not been in Toulon prison, Javert would have been unable to escape. He would have been stuck there, without any real protection and he would have had to endure what both the convicts and the guards had flung at him.

Men did get raped in prison; he had even walked in on it once. If the guards were paid, they would turn their backs; though some seemed to take a perverse enjoyment out of seeing another person so tormented... he shut his eyes and turned his head... he felt ill just thinking such a thing could have happened to the serious young man with a pretty face he had left in the village.

Was his time in prison worth Javert’s innocence? That was a decided yes. If his time in prison meant he had saved Javert from such a fate, then he would do it twice over. He had gotten more than just that for his time though. He had managed to free Javert as well. He was sure the boy had come for him during the commotion at the prison because he had been unable to scale the wall. If Javert had had no one he could trust, he would have been stuck...

The realisation left him astounded; breathless. God may not have been looking out solely for Jean Valjean; it was ridiculous to think so. God had also been looking out for Javert. He had freed them both from jail and helped them escape into the mountains. Here, they had gotten a nice room that was not too expensive, and a strict but caring land lady.

He pulled himself up and prostrated himself to the Heavens.

“Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” It was not the most articulate prayer ever, but it was sincere. His heart felt lighter, and he knew he could trust God. he would do his best to remember this lesson; to remember that even if something seemed unfair and bad, God would keep him safe, but God was not solely focused on one person, but helping him look after someone else as well.

Valjean stayed bowed before God for a long time, his worries and fears lowly lifting from his body, as though someone were picking them off one at a time. Eventually he rolled over and slept for a time, a more restful sleep than he had had in a long time.

When the dawn came, Jean Valjean descended the mountain a new person. He could not wait to see his young man and relay the revelation.


	12. Chapter 12

Javert awoke to the sound of the birds. It was peaceful, and he felt no need to jump up. He rolled over; stretching his body over Valjean’s and kissed the man’s chest. It had been over three years since they had arrived at the little village. 

Valjean worked as a gardener for most of the year, though he was especially busy in summer. Recently he had taken to being a sort of ‘guide’ to those rich people who came to see the beauty of the place.

Valjean had had a shocking return to religion after returning from a night on Mont Blanc. He had been rambling about God and his graces. He had kissed Javert deeply, unable to keep the joyful smile off his face. Javert still felt weak at the knees when he remembered it.

However, though Valjean had done so once, he had never kissed the young man in such a way again. His attention was fully turned to God, and while he did not object to Javert sleeping beside him, he did not touch him anymore.

While Javert was happy the older man had found a source of deep joy, he was secretly and bitterly disappointed. He had enjoyed the man’s attention, had enjoyed the feeling of those large hands exploring his skin. At night, he dreamt of their time in prison, sharing a small bunk bed together.

He worked as a letter writer for those who wished to send updates on their family to other relatives. He spend days writing on a range of subjects, usually mainly saying that ___ had died; or ___ had had a baby and the Christening would be in two weeks; Sometimes, a daughter would be getting married and ___ was cordially invited to the ceremony. There were the less frequent letters, saying that ___ missed ___ and how long was he at sea for, would he write her as soon as he got a chance; there were also letters of a less than proper nature, detailing how ___ thought of their man (or woman) last night, how they had touched themselves with quick fingers... some of these letters were embarrassingly detailed, but he could hide the blush on his cheeks by bending his head to write.

He also read letters to people when the mail coach brought them up. These tended to be of similar subjects, though there was another genre, where mothers were berating people for running away with ___ to live in the mountains, and how they ought to deal with the responsibility and come home. He also had to read aloud the other kind of letters... he was not slow, and so he knew people tended to stare at his mouth when he read these words; some people were even vulgar enough to touch themselves through their clothing while he read their letters; sometimes he turned his back to them so he could get through the letter to the end. 

People came to him to read these letters because the other two writers in the town refused to either read or write such content. 

He was often home during the day though, the majority of his work taking place on an evening when people had finished their work.

He used his time at home to relieve his frustration. Thankfully, some of his clients gave him more than just money to thank him. There was one woman who kept giving him oil, and as last week he had finally burst out that he had no need for it because the man he lived with did not have sex, she had promised to get him something to help relieve that tension. She had not come back to him yet, but he was not going to go find her to see what she was doing. He was a respectful 24 year old man. He had lived many lives and sexual frustration had yet to kill him. He would manage.

He stood up and wandered over to the basin, washing his face slowly. He did not mind that Valjean had found God, his smile was beautiful and it stole Javert’s breath every time he saw it. However, he wished the man did not make him feel so ignored in his devotion.

Javert loved Valjean, but perhaps he ought to try thinking about finding release somewhere else. He thought of the whores that, though fewer in number, wandered even these chilly streets, and he changed his mind. He would not be so selfish.

He began to dress, sending a brief glance at the beautiful body that was on display upon the bed before hurrying out the door, grabbing an apple as he passed their basket of fruit.

The cold mist still hung in the air, permeating Javert’s skin as he walked along to his little office. He would sit here. Hopefully the old proverb ‘Whan man is oute of sight, son he passith oute of mynde’ would prove true, and being unable to see Valjean would take Javert’s thoughts away from him.

“There you are, my child.” Javert raised his eyes, smiling slightly as the robust woman entered the room.

“Madame Sotheby.” He jumped to his feet, watching her come inside and sit down.

“Here. As promised.”

“What is it?”

“I have a friend who makes these sort of things for me. After my husband died, I couldn’t cope with the idea of wedding again, but I still needed something.”

She placed an item on the table. It was wrapped in cloth. Javert did not touch it but looked at the kindly woman nervously.

“Oh, no need to look so scared, boy. It’s just sex. She makes them in the shape of a man’s cock.”

Javert felt his eyes widen rapidly; they flickered to the covered shape on the table.

“Obviously, this isn’t one of mine. I asked her to make a small one for you. Probably best, if that man of yours won’t take you. We don’t want it to be too big for you.”

Javert’s mouth opened and shut a few times, though no words exited. Madame Sotheby gave him an amused grin.

“It’s just a smooth wooden one, this is. If you want another kind, let me know. She can carve lumps and stuff into them, or I can get you a leather covering. That way it’s more... stimulating.”

Her grin widened as Javert choked slightly. She smiled, pushing the object closer to him.

“Try it. Tell me if you want any changes, or if you want it bigger at some point. In exchange, let me know if you want the pruner’s head knocking in; see if I can get some sense into it; or let me know if he comes to his senses on his own and realises that God only requires that level of celibacy from priests, monks and nuns.”

She smirked at his shocked face, before sweeping majestically, dramatically out of the door.

\---

By early evening, Javert was at home in their bed with his legs spread. The wooden... object was lay beside him, though he was using his fingers to get himself ready.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the sun heating the top of his leg and its light skimmed through their room. Two fingers in and he was wriggling slightly, trying to get them deeper... three fingers... his mind drifted to Valjean. His favourite fantasy; feeling the older man settle between his legs, his thicker fingers plunging into his arsehole and stretching him out; he tried to imagine lips kissing down his body, though he supposed lack of experience made this more difficult than it should be.

Javert grabbed his wooden object... his wooden cock and slicked it up with lubricant. He took a deep breath and relaxed his body as best he could, placed the tip at his hole and pushed gently. It didn’t really go in. He spread his legs further, chest heaving as he forced his lower body to relax. He pushed harder this time. It was a smooth wood, no nicks, no loose bits that would risk splinters... this time it made its way inside.

Javert let out a shaky breath, unsure if he liked something so large stretching him like this... he pushed it a little further, breathing through the burn and going back to his fantasy. Perhaps Valjean would stroke his sides, as one would try and calm a distressed animal. He would press little kisses over his face a whisper calming words.

He pushed it in even more. Maybe Valjean would not be whispering. Maybe he would be enjoying the feel so much his words would fail him. Valjean may lie above him, little groans escaping his lips. Just imaging it, Javert let out his own little moan. He went in the rest of the way, to where it thickened considerably at the end. There was a small handle like thing on the end, and Javert used this to pull it out slightly and push it back in.

He whimpered at the feel. It was really odd; his fingers never went this deep. It actually felt quite good. He rolled over onto his front, bringing one knee up to his chest and reaching back with one hand. 

Javert tried thrusting it in at the same time as moving his hips, but had to settle on keeping it pushed inside as far as he could, one hand resting partially on his buttocks as he covered the end. It kept it as deep as possible as he thrust his hips, rubbing his cock into the sheet beneath him. It felt really good. 

He just needed a warmth covering his back, keeping his legs in position... He screwed his eyes tightly shut and thought of Valjean. His hips began to grinding quicker and more whimpers escaped. Bringing his hand under the leg that was folded up to his chest, he felt along to where the thing was entering him. He let out a small wail, before moving his hand to press his knuckles into his balls.

With another whimper, Javert came.

He shut his eyes and relaxed, feeling better than he had in some time.


	13. Chapter 13

Valjean smiled as he watched the children run around, giggling. They really were quite sweet. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to climbing into his bed.

He had gotten up this morning to an empty bed. This was nothing new, as Javert always seemed to awaken at dawn. He had shaved, dressed and headed out to M. Thomas’ home. He had been clipping back the garden to make way for the growing flowers that were climbing up his wall and fence. He had then eaten the lunch the man’s housekeeper had given him and started to pull up the weeds that sapped the life out of the beautiful plants, sneaking up between the cobble stones.

He had then eaten a light broth and headed home. It was still quite early, the sun only just going down in the summer’s sky. Valjean stopped in the chapel to say thank you to God for a wonderful day, and to request the continued good health of Javert and himself.

It was quiet in the house when he got home, and he headed up the stairs quickly, unlocking the door once he reached the room.

Inside, it was fairly dark. He could see a lump on the bed and grinned, turning to light a candle.

In the light, the lump on the bed turned out to be more than he expected. Javert was lay facing the door, the corner of the blanket that covered his buttocks doing nothing to hide the fact that he was naked. Valjean took a step closer, staring at the pale skin on display.

“Javert!” He hissed, a deep blush colouring his face. “Javert!”

“Huh?” Javert shifted, blinking sleepily with his mouth hanging slightly open. He was more attractive that he had any right to be.

“Put some clothing on.”

Javert just rubbed his eyes, before staring blearily up at him. “Mmm... Right.”

Valjean took a step back to glare at the boy as he sat up.

“Will you put the stopper back in my oil?” He asked softly, before shifting awkwardly to the edge of the bed. Valjean was about to demand why he was moving so strangely when he watched the handsome young man lean forwards and reach behind himself.

Valjean flushed again as he realised what Javert was doing. He threw the boy a scrap bit of cloth before focussing all his attention on putting the stopper in the large bottle of oil. For such a large bottle, there was a fair amount missing. Was this what Javert did while Valjean was out working?

He scowled slightly, and then shook his head. No. Javert had a proper job, he wrote letters for people. He must have just had some time off today. He glanced over to see Javert had pulled his nightshirt on, but was using the rag to clean a wooden... cylinder. It had to be a cylinder. It may have looked like a phallic shape but... 

He looked over again, but Javert had put it in a drawer and was now sitting with his back to Valjean, moving the rag over his buttocks; in between those cheeks.

Valjean turned and began to undress in sharp movements. He pulled on his nightshirt and climbed into bed, determined not to look at Javert.

“I’m sorry.” He heard Javert’s voice. “It was so good I just fell straight asleep.”

Javert sounded so miserable, so upset by this that Valjean felt his anger melt away. He turned over to see Javert stood back from the bed, looking over to the candle.

“Do not worry about it.” He managed not to sound angry. It helped that he remembered how often he had rubbed himself at Javert’s age. “Are you coming to bed?”

“No. I already slept some. I think I’ll sit over here and read... something.”

Valjean sat up and looked at the boy. He still looked miserable, and actually a little afraid, but he edged around to pick up the light.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You will sleep better without me there anyway.” The hesitant voice Javert spoke in, so soft and so frightened was unlike him. Javert was confident in everything he did, or he tried to sound confident in everything.

“I sleep better knowing you are safe beside me. Come to bed.”

“How could you? You seemed so disgusted.” The boy turned his back and crouched down next to the bookshelf. Valjean sighed. Javert didn’t like reading books, there was no point pretending he suddenly gained an interest. He slid out of bed and crouched down beside the young man. His eyes were dry, but he still looked unhappy.

“You enjoyed it?” Javert turned away, so Valjean placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders to pull him around and hold him there. “Javert, did you enjoy it?”

The younger man gave a gentle nod, still not meeting Valjean’s eyes.

“Then, where is the problem?”

“You.” Javert mumbled.

“What?”

“When... When I- I think of you when I...” He was red, and there were tears in his eyes now. Valjean felt his stomach drop out as he stared at the other.

“Oh my...” He whispered, unsure of what to say. “Well... Right.”

“You... I’d... Don’t hate me. It’s just, you used to make me kiss you, and lie with you; now you make me feel safe and I do rather love you... You used to make me feel so loved.”

“Hate you? How could I hate you? I... Wait, ‘used to’? I don’t make you feel loved anymore?” He moved a hand to tilt Javert’s face up. The tears were now falling down his cheeks, but Valjean could feel his own tears forming.

“I... Your anger used to be a frightening thing, and I am glad you have found God, and that He makes you happy. However, I feel like I just sleep beside you every night, but you don’t see me.” Javert was shaking with his emotions now, but Valjean felt numb with shock.

Javert loved him. Javert loved him and felt ignored in return.

“Why didn’t you say?” He wrapped his arms around the skinny body and pulled him close.

“We work separate jobs, we don’t have much time together so I didn’t want to be a bother. My cards just said I need to have patience anyway, so I was trying to. I’m sorry.” Javert voice broke slightly in the middle, though it was muffled by Valjean’s shoulder.

“You are not a bother. Not now, not ever. You shouldn’t have let this run you down. How long has it been bothering you?”

“Just a few years.” Javert’s voice was calmer now, his limbs relaxing. “My cards told me to wait it out.”

“Years? No. If something is upsetting you, tell me. Do not let it go on for years. What cards are telling you this?”

“My mother’s cards. My tarot cards.” The young man’s voice was slurring now as sleep began to take over him. Valjean picked his boy up and put him on the bed before blowing out the candle and lying down beside him.

“Good night. We shall talk more tomorrow.”


	14. Chapter 14

Javert stirred as he heard the morning chorus of birds. He stretched and turned over, as he did every morning. The move was hampered by the solid body curled into him. Javert stared for a moment at the peaceful face of Jean Valjean.

The older man must have spent the night curled around him... he smiled slightly. The idea that he had been protected throughout the night was nice; they had spent a great deal of time sleeping in the same bed with very little contact.

He debated getting up, getting dressed and heading into work; he debated continuing on without talking to Valjean at all. They could pretend nothing had happened and go back to how things had been. It wasn’t so bad, he knew how to live alone, and he knew how to live with people; this was something of a compromise. 

He also knew he had enjoyed waking up this morning. He had felt loved to be connected in such a simple way with someone. He lay watching Valjean’s face, knowing he would have to miss an early start today.

Although Javert spent some time simply waiting, he was unprepared for his bed mate stirring; giving a little groan and pulling him close to snuggle into his head. He gasped, tensing up even as he moved closer.

“Good morning.” Valjean’s gruff voice rumbled in his ear. He couldn’t help relaxing as the warm breath hit him. “Sleep well?”

“I... yes, actually.”

“Good.” Valjean kept the young man close, rolling over onto his back and pulling Javert with him. The wanderer relaxed into his arms, settling down as he realised they were not going to jump straight into a conversation he was dreading.

\---

The two men sat slowly drinking their tea, neither speaking but the silence was a comfortable one. Valjean kept a soft smile on his face and this encouraged Javert. It reminded him that in all the time they had been together, Valjean had never hurt him; with the exception of inside Toulon where he used to mark Javert’s neck. That pain had been enjoyable though, and it had never been done in anger.

Valjean would never hurt him physically, though Javert did rather fear for his heart. He took a deep breath and stared into the older man’s face. It was time to actually talk.

“I apologise for yesterday. I did not mean to disgust you in such a manner.”

“What?” Valjean stared blankly at him for a moment, as though not expecting Javert to jump straight in. “You surprised me, Javert. You did not disgust me.”

“Oh.” He vaguely remembered Valjean saying something similar the night before. “Well, I thought it best to start with an apology.”

“Then I must apologise for frightening you.”

“You did not-”

“I did. And I am sorry for it. I will never intentionally harm you.”

“Thank you.”

Valjean moved the cups out of the way and sat down at the table beside Javert. “I think it would be best if we discussed what we want. What we think is working in our life right now, and what we want to change.”

Javert nodded his head, and reached a hand out to Valjean, who clasped it tightly.

“Now then... What is it that you want?”

Javert sighed and spent a moment staring into his face. He was not sure how to explain his feelings. “How about... what I am happy with, first.”

“Of course.”

“I am glad that you are happy. You do deserve it. I have heard of miracles before, and I have dismissed them, yet to see you filled with such peace... how can I doubt?”

“Thank you.” He gently kissed Javert’s knuckles, eyes focussed solely on him.

“I like living here. It is a pleasant place and the people are wonderful. I like having a job. It is important to work for what I need. I did not expect to have a job beyond a prison guard. I found it difficult to consider any other job. I always tend to see too much in any other job. I see people giving money they have earned to tradesman without receiving enough for it. People being exploited. Now, I write letters without seeing the outside world. I actually don't mind it.”

“You are an honest person.”

“Yes. And you?”

“I love the peace here. I love tending gardens, and seeing the rewards as the summer approaches. I love seeing the faces of people when they view the work I have done.”

“You are most wonderful at it.”

“I enjoy lying down beside you at night.” Javert waited as the other hesitated over what to say. “I enjoyed waking beside you this morning... I know that you are an early riser and that you do not like to linger in bed once you have awakened.”

“It is a waste of time.”

“I know, but I would ask that two or three times a week, you could find the time to waste on me.”

“Oh.”

“Or, if you would wake me before you get up.”

“I... could manage that.”

“What do you want changing?”

“If... I know I am not the best cook, but I do make food on an evening, yet you insist on eating elsewhere. As I do not usually work during the day, but just mornings until noon and then again on evenings, I have been helping Giselle by cooking.”

“I had wondered why our rent had decreased slightly.”

“I cook food, and yet you spend money elsewhere for your meals.”

“I... have no reason for this, and I did not know it bothered you.”

“Many people these days view meal times as time to be spent with family. You are the only family I have now.”

“I apologise.”

“Also, if it is not too... bold of me... You used to hold me.”

“I hold you every night.”

“No. You used to touch me. You made me feel safe; safe and loved.”

“I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. And I do love you, absolutely.”

“Yet, you may as well be a priest. I used to look forward to a... well, a... I want a sexual relationship.” He blushed deeply. “You seem to have taken a vow of celibacy. There are times I think you have taken a vow of silence as well. I have passed you in the street and you ignore me.”

“Ignore you? No. I would not.” Valjean looked upset at this idea.

“You are doing it now. You are focussing on the wrong bit.”

“You want a sexual relationship.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Obviously.”

“I did not know. I am so sorry.” Javert stared at him, his heart pounding. They were addressing an issue he wanted to concentrate on, yet he felt sick trying to discuss it. “I worried that I would be forcing you. I know you continued even after we left prison, but if you were doing it out of some attempt to thank me, or...”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes. I see that now.”

Javert looked at Valjean for a moment longer, before closing his eyes. He felt exhausted.

“You need sleep.”

“I do not.” He opened his eyes, grinning. A weight had been lifted. 

“We are agreed to make an effort then? To spend more time together?”

“Yes please.”

“We shall start this by settling back down for a rest.”

Valjean helped Javert to his feet but before moving off, he embraced the young man, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I apologise in advance for any mistakes I make. However, let me know if something bothers you, do not hide it.”

“I will; if you will do the same.”

“Yes.”


	15. Chapter 15

Valjean smiled as he pruned the bushes in M. Thomas’ garden. The sun was high in the sky and he was feeling good. He was full, warm and healthy. He had spent the early morning in bed with Javert, cuddling and giving soft kisses. The idea that Javert wanted him to do so was strange, even now. The thought that such an attractive young man could want him... in such a graphic manner...

He lowered his hands for a moment as he remembered the shock of Javert on their bed, naked and exhausted... flushed...

He remembered how upset the dear child had gotten... No; he was twenty four, not a child. He was a handsome young man with a sound mind. It was insulting to think Javert did not know what he wanted; even if it was Valjean he desired.

He returned to pruning, plans to prove to Javert that the attraction was mutual running though his mind.

\---

When he got back, Valjean found their room empty. Giselle had not seen him since the morning when he had returned briefly. She handed him a note that had been left for him, and the older man headed up to his room.

‘ _Luc Javert has been returned to his clan. He is safe with us. Do not try to find him._ ’

Valjean frowned. He did not believe it. Javert had never mentioned a clan. He had told Valjean he was a gypsy, in a conversation about families. Javert’s mother had been a gypsy who had had an affair with a handsome man who had turned out to be a murderer. Apparently his father was still in Toulon prison. His mother had not known how to love him, but he loved her. Javert had insisted he never wanted to return to his mother or her family though, that he did not enjoy their company because they were so different.

Valjean headed out to buy another sack to put their stuff in. He informed Giselle they were leaving on his way out and that he did not know if they would return here. She told him to go safely, but she wasn’t going to keep the room on the off-chance they came back.

Their lives both fit into one sack and a knapsack. They had not acquired very much beyond clothing. He placed Javert’s box carefully into the smaller bag; it was further proof that Javert had not gone willingly.

He needed a horse, and he felt a great need to hurry. He stopped at M. Thomas’ first though, to explain he could not continue because he had to help his dear companion. The aging man had spent a few long moments staring up into his eyes, before nodding his head.

“Wait here a moment.” 

The man disappeared inside and Valjean restlessly waited. The sun was reaching the cusp of its journey through the sky and he wanted to leave. The man hurried back out soon enough though.

“Here. Food that’ll keep. You don’t look like you have thought that far ahead.”

“Oh, right. Thank you.”

“This is a map of France; it does not include much of the north, I did not really travel up there, but I have spent much time in the south and in the west. I’m not sure how accurate it is now, but it is a copy of one I made when I was younger. I used to travel a lot.”

“I- I can’t... Thank you.”

“And here is the pay for what you have done. It’s not the full amount, but you did not finish.”

“Thank you so much.”

Valjean wrapped his arms briefly around the man, unable to fully express his gratitude. M. Thomas chuckled.

“Get a move on then and help that boy of yours.”

“Thank you. God bless you, monsieur.”

“May He travel with you.”

\---

M. Thomas’ map was still fairly accurate. Some land had clearly changed hands, and paths had been changed in accordance with it, but otherwise it was good. Valjean had asked about the village before leaving, and had now believed Javert and whoever was with him to be travelling down Lyon.

He followed his heart and the guidance of God.

Even with a good horse, it took him a week to catch them up. He wondered what the man held over Javert to make him travel with little fuss, but his love’s face was sour when he saw it from the shadows in Grenoble. 

He tracked them to a small hovel and in the night he crept into the room. It was foolish, he was quite aware of that; he knew it would be better for him to do this calmly during the day, but something led him to try in the dark of the night.

Thankfully, the room was lit by the moonlight, the poor curtains doing little to block it out. There were two beds and both men were silent in them. It took him a moment to pick his love out, but there he was; his soft face lax with sleep.

He leaned down a pressed his lips to Javert’s, hoping to wake him without letting him make a noise, to wake him and let him know _who_ it was. Surely there was only one person who would kiss him to wake him.

Javert hummed slightly, stretching up into the kiss. Valjean held in a chuckle, instead nipping lightly at those lovely lips.

“Jean?” Javert murmured softly, his eyes fluttering open.

“Come.” He breathed, and Javert nodded his head. They pulled Javert’s boots back on and shuffled slowly back out the window.

“I am so glad you slept on the ground floor.”

“Indeed.” Said Javert dryly, quirking his brow.

“That was remarkably easy. I expected it to be more difficult to retrieve you from a kidnapper.”

“He was not a kidnapper. He is actually a good man.”

“You wanted to stay with him?”

“No. Definitely not, but Père Bavol will have sent him. He will not disobey the clan leader.”

“Even against your will?”

“I figured I would go and talk to him, see what he wanted. They are good people, but I just struggled to get along with them.”

“Would you prefer to go and talk to them?”

“No.” Javert stopped walking, turning to look up into Valjean’s eyes. “I want to go somewhere quiet with you and settle down again.”

“He won’t come after us?”

“He has one of the women with him. She may insist on it, but I am sure we can make it.”

Valjean leaned down and pressed his lips to Javert’s. They were soft and pliant, opening with a flick of his tongue. Javert pulled his head down, closer to him and pushed his own tongue into Valjean’s mouth, letting out tiny whimpers as he did so. It was wreaking Valjean’s self-control so he pulled back.

“We should leave then.”

“Yes.” Javert leaned up for a last quick kiss before they began to walk again.

“No.” A woman’s voice hissed behind them. A fairly young woman in bright orange and red clothing stood nearby.

“Anna...” started Javert, but she cut him off.

“No. Père Bavol wants you to come home. We have been entrusted with your soul. If your foolish mother had not allowed you to leave we would still have it.”

“I belong to no one; not unless I choose to do so.” His eyes flickered briefly to Valjean; Anna’s eyes followed this.

“You think he could love you? The real you?”

“I think... I hope that he loves me for who I am.”

“I do.” Assured Valjean quietly.

“We shall see.” She walked calmly over to them, pouring a deep coloured liquid over her fingers as she approached. Her next words were not in any language Valjean recognised, but Javert stared at her with wide eyes.

She laughed as she headed back inside. “You’ll be back to us when he leaves you.” She called back.

“What did she do, Javert?”

“Nothing permanent.”

“What did she do?”

“Can we get moving again?”

Javert set off in a hurry, his face pale. Valjean sighed, but followed.

“I have a room a few streets away.”

“Can we go there?”

“Of course.”

Once in the room, Javert surged up against him, pressing their lips together in an almost desperate act. The young man’s hands roamed his body and he threaded his fingers into Valjean’s hair. It took the older man to stop the blinding arousal that surged through him.

“Wait, please. Javert?”

“Wait? Now?”

“Yes. I want to do this act for ourselves.”

“Who else would it be for? I’ve waited long enough.”

“Then please wait a little longer. I don’t not want to do it as a reaction to whatever fear she has stirred up inside you.”

The boy glared for a moment; his skin seemed to be almost rippling.

“Javert?”

Javert snarled angrily. His clothing changed into an outfit he had seen once, years ago; a blue knee length tunic, boots and body armour. He thankfully lacked a sword.

“Javert?”

“Who?” asked the other man slowly, his tongue stumbling over the word, as though speaking a language he had only ever read. He was older than Javert... this was Maximus. He placed his hands on the muscular man’s shoulders.

“I do not know what is going on, but I do know that it is only temporary. The woman promised.”

Maximus lowered his body into an aggressive stance, but Valjean pulled him close, trusting his heart to say what he did not know how to explain.

“What are you doing? You are not my wife!”

“No. But you need to trust me. It is late. We both need rest.”

“Where are we?”

“It does not matter. Rest.”

Maximus punched him, turning and leaving. Valjean sat on the bed, dazed for a moment.

“Shit.”

\---

He had spent a fruitless night searching for Maximus. It would be obvious that Javert was a wanderer though and they were not in Chamonix anymore, the wonderful village that did not care about who people were in the past. 

He would end up back in prison. If Maximus was as violent as he had seemed, he may not even make it to prison before making a fatal mistake.

A scream further down made him run. Maximus stood with an angry glare on his face, the same look that had been on Javert’s earlier. 

“Stop!” He shouted as the man raised his fist to hit a policeman.

“No. I shall not be detained.”

“Do not kill him.” Maximus punched the man, but left him alone when he fell to the ground.

“He still breathes. Now, explain yourself.”

“You are lost in time, my love. Do not ruin your future life with rash actions.”

“I have harmed you. Why do you care?”

“I love you.”

“What?” It stopped Maximus, whose attention had only been half on the conversation.

“I am sorry you are in a situation you do not understand, but I ask that you calm down.”

Maximus did not relax his stance, but he searched Valjean’s eyes for an uncomfortably long time. He usually liked those blue eyes upon him, but this distrustful gaze was not something he wanted.

“I will accept what you say. This is temporary? How much so?”

“I do not know. Let us go get some sleep and then perhaps I will be awake enough to explain.”

Maximus nodded, and the two men set back off. Valjean strongly hoped that after a sleep Maximus would be back to his true self, because he did not know how to explain any of this.

In the room, Maximus removed his boots and armour before lying down. Valjean stripped down to his trousers before sliding in behind him.

“Good night, God bless.” He whispered.

\---

 

“Jean?”

A soft kiss was pressed into his chest and Valjean opened his eyes. His love’s young face was staring down at him. He rolled them over and laid claim to those pink lips with enthusiasm. Javert’s long legs came up to wrap around his hips.

It still felt like too soon to be taking care of each other’s needs like this and he pulled back. Javert looked curiously at him for a moment, before huffing and letting his arms fall over his face.

“We need to travel to find a new town to settle in. Best to get a move on if we want to reach somewhere before dark.”

“You’re _impossible_!”

Valjean laughed, but sat up and began to get ready for the day.


	16. Chapter 16

Javert sighed as he shifted on the bed. The weeks had been long, but they had found somewhere to stay. It had been over half a year since they had left Chamonix, since they had left the peaceful village.

They now lived in Frontignan, where Javert worked in the salt works. Valjean was a factory owner, watching over his workers who made rosaries. Le curè Myriel had been something of a blessing for Javert and Valjean. 

The kindly priest had directed Valjean back to God. In their moving, Valjean’s faith had taken a backseat due to the fears of money. Javert was unsure why they hadn’t returned to Chamonix; they had been happy there, but Valjean wanted to move on, so they had done so.

They had stopped in Frontignan, planning to begin a new life and the first person they had met had been Myriel. He had smiled at the two men and welcomed them into his home on their first night there. 

The night had been cold, and Javert had cuddled close to Valjean. The priest had given them his thickest blanket, taking a thin wrap for himself and told them to use his bed. Javert could remember being struck by how odd it was for someone to be so selfless...

The feeling was amplified the next day. When they had been preparing to leave the humble dwelling, le curè Myriel came and offered them his silver candle sticks. Javert had automatically refused; he was no beggar and he would not take the possessions of a priest.

Regardless, the candlesticks had been shoved into their arms and the men left. They found a small room to rent and Valjean took up a job fixing carts and tables and various other items. He would take up gardening again when the weather improved, but for now he fixed things. His earnings were enough for them to eat and to rent their room. The men prayed every day, the candlesticks illuminating the simple crucifix they focussed.

Half way through October in 1804, the priest found them again. Javert met the man in the market place and Myriel insisted he come visit.

The young wanderer agreed and he stopped at the older man’s home, enjoying a cup of... something warm, which tasted strongly of honey. This visit impacted greatly on Javert.

Myriel was a lost soul. He had nearly always been a priest, for the past 756 years, but he always came back after death. He had no identifying marks, so Napoléon’s police could not accuse him. (Napoléon had recently declared himself some kind of Emperor, but Javert wasn’t sure of the exact details because he kept to himself as much as possible.)

Javert had taken time to talk with Myriel. He sparked in the ex-prison guard a memory of his own faith. He remembered the many, many years when he had turned to his God for comfort and company. He felt a little saddened that he had allowed one bad life to take that away from him.

He considered Valjean, who had been so alive when he had discovered God. He thanked Myriel, but before he could leave, the man gave him a rosary.

He had shown the gift to Valjean when the older man had returned home. Valjean had held the delicate beads in his large hands and stared at them. Javert had settled in to bed, but the next day it was clear his partner had not slept; he sat staring at the rosary in his fingers still.

Whatever epiphany the man had had, Javert left him to it, heading out to ask for jobs again. Before he could step outside, he discovered yet another gift outside their room.

The priest had left a large portion of silver crockery for them with an envelope on top.

The note was short, telling them he was moving to a new town and wanted the two men to find happiness. He knew they had both been in jail, but he left the silver to buy them back from any devils that held their souls and requested they remember God in all their dealings.

He had added onto the end that he had gotten Javert a job at the salt works.

It changed their lives. Over that winter, Valjean had used the gifts to buy a warehouse. He took to heart the priest’s comment about God, and began to make rosaries. He made money from these beautiful things, travelling out to surrounding villages to sell them.

It had only been going for a few months, but now the business was running extremely well. Javert was pleased. He slept in that small room beside Valjean every night and they were happy.

Mostly...

Javert still hadn’t got a sexual relationship with Valjean, but he could wait until things settled out.

\---

The next morning, in the middle of March, Javert decided to stay in bed; a rare indulgence that Javert could recall Valjean once requesting he make more frequent. 

He had nearly a week off due to problems with their management, but he chose not to question what that actually meant. It was pleasant to lie in a warm bed and know he had nothing to move for. He rolled over and stared at Valjean.

The man was thirty five; it showed in places. His hair was gaining more silver, day by day. He was as strong as he had ever been, but his stomach had rounded from the lack of physical labour. The young man could not deny that he liked the look; it made him feel like they were settled, preparing to start the rest of their life. By comparison, Javert was still skinny, but he was beginning to fill out with age.

He just hoped Valjean would not want to keep running. He placed a hand on the man’s broad chest, tracing his fingers through the thick hair before leaning down to kiss it.

Maybe he could get what he wanted this morning...

Javert shifted his body over his partner’s, carefully kissing at his whiskered neck. Valjean didn’t stir, so the smaller man wriggled down to kiss at his chest, a grin breaking across his face.

Why had he never thought of this before? He was finally getting to taste that flesh, to lick down those lovely muscles and to nip at his skin. Valjean moaned slightly, shifting his hips. Javert grinned and lowered himself further, pausing to suck at his stomach, to lick at the thick hair that covered it.

Under his chin, Javert could feel his eventual goal, but he took his time, thankful that Valjean had chosen to simply strip before falling into bed the previous night.

“J... vert? Javert? ‘s wrong?” slurred Valjean as he stirred. 

Javert ignored him and continued to taste the man’s skin.

“Is this about sex? I need to relieve my bladder first.” Valjean’s voice was still croaky, but he sat up and gave Javert an apologetic smile. “Just be a minute.”

Javert huffed and lay on his back as Valjean jumped up and pulled a nightshirt over his body before hurrying out. He was finally getting what he wanted; he smiled slightly as he thought about it. Then he realised he was naked and lying on his back. Their landlord had yet to walk into the room without knocking, but Javert pulled the blankets up over his body anyway. He wasn’t keen on being seen in such a state.

His body settled down as he waited his partner’s return and Javert debated just getting up anyway. Surely there would be other days they could do this? Valjean would probably want to be fully aware of what was going on from the beginning.

Javert turned away from the door and curled in on himself as a thought occurred to him: what if Valjean had only been going along with it because he was aroused? What if they reached the end and the man was angry that he hadn’t been given a choice?

A flickering doubt returned to his mind. What if Valjean would not willingly choose him at all? He was perfectly aware that he was not the most attractive person strutting around the town. He knew that his clothing was old and that it did not smell fresh, that it did not present him in a favourable light. The clothing he wore to work was a far cry from the smart uniform of a prison guard...

The door opened again and Javert tensed up. He waited for Valjean’s disappointed sigh. However, it didn’t come. There was a rustle of clothing and Valjean slid back into the bed and shifted his weight over to Javert.

“Now, I am better prepared.”

“Do you want to?” Javert’s voice was low and serious. He couldn’t bare it if he forced the other man into something he did not want.

“Do I ... Of course I do!” Valjean pulled Javert’s body close, until his back was flush against the larger man’s chest. His erection was obvious as it rested on Javert’s skin. “Do you?”

“Yes.” hissed Javert, turning to kiss Valjean.

It was the kind of kiss Javert had dreamt about. Valjean pressed the smaller man into the sheets and devoured his mouth. It was hot, not just in the way it made Javert’s blood rush but in the way their breaths mingled, filling the other’s mouth and warming them all the way down. Javert wondered if it was love he was feeling; if that was what warmed him so... but the thoughts drifted away as Valjean began to bite at his lower lip.

Javert felt his wrists get pulled into a grip and stretched above his head. He flushed as this bared his torso for the other man to see, which he clearly did. He stared at the heaving chest, the way Javert’s muscles were defined in the stretch. He saw and he explored through other sense. He licked, tasting the sweaty flesh, suckling on a soft, pointed nipple until Javert was whimpering beneath him. He could well have been smelling Javert, his nose pressed so close as he licked. The exhales he let out tickled Javert’s flesh more than they had any right to do, but for some reason they did not make him giggle; instead his whimpers increased.

Javert actually let out a wail when the man’s teeth came into the equation. His nipples throbbed as they were carefully chewed on and if Javert had had any thoughts left in his head, he would have objected to his body finding this so arousing. As it was, his cock hardened even more as his hips began to writhe.

“Hold still, my love.” Valjean’s gruff voice murmured. “I only know the basics of these acts and I want to explore.”

Javert tried to hold still. His legs were splayed wide on the bed, his arms pinned high on the pillows by one of Valjean’s as the man licked and nipped his way across his chest. It was impossible to hold his hips still though. In all of his imaginings of what doing this with Valjean might involve, he had never focussed so much on his own body.

He had thought about Valjean fucking him with some frequency, he had used his own... the gift from Madame Sotheby to imitate the act, but as Valjean said, that was just the basics. He had never considered how it would feel to have someone’s lips circle his nipple, for them to suckle marks into his skin as they dipped lower. He had never thought how the scratch of a beard would feel against his own bare skin.

He never would have believed it would feel like a tease.

Finally, Valjean dropped down lower. He released Javert’s wrists to better balance himself, but then he began licking Javert’s cock as though it was some kind of confectionary.

He sucked at the tip, before sliding his tongue out to play with the foreskin; he traced around it like a man trying to get every last bit of sherbet out of a small tin. It was maddening. His cock began to leak, but it was lost in the saliva that fell from Valjean’s lips. Javert wailed softly, trying not to break into actual sobs. He had never thought it could feel so good.

Valjean let out a chuckle that turned into a groan as Javert’s hands dropped to his head. His fingers gripped those curls and focussed on not gripping his thighs around his love’s head.

Javert genuinely did let out a sob when Valjean used his teeth here too. It was just a light scratch, but he was unsure if it felt good or bad. It made his eyes roll back into his head though and he lost control of his hips, snapping them forward as his desire overtook him.

Valjean choked and pulled back, chuckling again as he caught his breath.

“Where is your oil?”

Oil? Javert struggled to bring sense to his mind enough to consider the question. Oil was in his box. His box was...

“Box, under bed.” he gasped out, happily wriggling out of the man’s embrace to lie down on his front. He pulled one leg up into his chest as he waited; this was how he usually did it and some familiarity in these overwhelming events would be good.

A slick finger pressed lightly against his arsehole. Javert’s body quivered with anticipation, but he took a deep breath and actively made himself relax. The finger slid in. It felt odd, that finger. It was only slightly thicker than his own, and he likely couldn’t actually tell the difference, but the thought of more girth entering him was... almost wild. He groaned and shoved his hips back.

Another finger slid in. Valjean simply wriggled them about, not really stretching so much as testing the give of his flesh, but the bumping was a new sensation. It was not something that Javert did and he wondered why he had never tried it. This, too, was good.

The third finger added a burn that was not entirely unpleasant. It started to make him tense up though, as he acknowledged that what he inserted in himself normally had nothing like the girth Valjean’s cock did. The press of lips on his spine caused him to relax though, as though Valjean had knocked a level that switched off the machinery in his mind.

As that mouth went back to its sucking, this time on the lumps of his spine, Valjean pulled his fingers out. Javert tensed, unsure if he was ready yet. However, it was just those fingers that returned, re-soaked in oil.

The press this time felt almost like a massage, carefully touching his flesh, encouraging him to relax. Valjean began to nip at his back and Javert moaned softly, burrowing his head into the blankets. Teeth should not feel so good. He had a horrible feeling that seeing them at a later date may send Javert into arousal... Just the thought of them...

He began to rock his hips again, trying to get the fingers deeper into his body, to get them to massage that point inside...

They were removed again, but this time Javert wailed. He wanted them back! He hadn’t finished with them. He felt Valjean’s heavy weight settle over him, but he didn’t tense. He was desperate to get something pressing that spot in his body and Valjean’s cock was definitely the thing for it.

Slowly, the man penetrated this ring. Javert could not decide if he ought to pull away from or push towards the entry. It was actually more painful than he had assumed it would be. It was also hot. He could feel the heat of Valjean’s arousal; there was something about the idea that he could do this to Valjean that stopped Javert from moving away.

It ought to be disgusting, to put your cock in such a place, but behind him, Valjean was gasping and panting, little moans of pleasure breaching his lips. It felt like high praise indeed. He forced himself to relax again and he pushed back. 

Suddenly, Javert became aware of the fact that he was no longer in pain. He relaxed further, shutting his eyes and trying to figure out if he was in pain anywhere. Valjean rocked forward and Javert’s senses were abruptly filled with pleasure.

It was pleasure like he had never known. It made him pant and roll fully onto his front to spread his legs further. He had pressed that spot before, but Valjean was hammering it with almost alarming accuracy. Every thrust made Javert’s nerves jump, he let out noise after noise, until his whimpering gasps only paused as he breathed in.

He could feel Valjean’s hot breath on his neck, could feel those knees forcing his own apart. He could feel the man’s arms where they pressed into the mattress either side of his body. As they partook in the age-old ritual, Javert experienced something entirely new; his could almost feel his lover’s pleasure alongside his own. He could feel each surge of arousal that swept though Valjean’s veins. 

With a loud moan, he felt Valjean’s pleasure arrive at its peak and spill forth into his own body. In a thrice, Javert let out another moan as a large hand encircled his cock and squeezed, forcing his own release.

He lay underneath that large torso, his own body wracked with shudders that he could not explain. He was not sobbing, not for joy or despair. He was not in any kind of shock. There was no reason for his body to shake, yet he could no more stop it than he could stop Valjean from rolling off him.

He reached back and grabbed the man’s hand though, pulling him over to curl into his back.

As he drifted off with Valjean wrapped around him like some bizarre human blanket, Javert felt a mild disbelief that he had never felt such a connection before. How could he have lived so long and never have truly made love?

His mind shut down as he fell asleep and the question was forgotten later in the day when they re-emerged.


	17. Chapter 17

Valjean was entirely too comfortable. Their lives in Frontignan were going well, as they had been for the eighteen months and Valjean was happy to say he and Javert finally had the relationship the younger man had been after.

Their lives were simple, but enjoyable. On Sundays, Javert and Valjean started the day by attending church. The priest was a kind man in many ways, but he believed the tales of stolen bodies. He believed that the lost souls had taken the bodies of children as their own, denying new souls the chance to live and grow. Javert and Valjean never stayed behind after the service, just in case.

The rest of the day was spent together. They took one day a week to curl up and chat. As the autumn days drew in, bringing the first hints of winter, Javert tended to light a fire and rest in front of it on a Sunday. They rarely indulged in any great activities on the Sabbath, so they used a fire to keep heat in. 

They were renting a larger place than they had been originally. They had a large room, with another small room off to the side. The spare room was not actually used, but they were not being charged for it as it was only accessible through their main room.

Valjean was happy with it though. His business was going well and he was providing many people with much needed jobs. He sold his rosaries to a great number of places, including cities as far north as Valence and as far west as Toulouse. They had been fortunate indeed.

Javert was still working in the salt mines. He had built up muscle and was beautiful to see when he came home covered in sweat and grinning happily. His young lover liked to feel he was earning the wage he brought home.

His life changed when he employed Mme Durant. She was a thin blonde woman with the usual harried look of the poor. She knocked on the door of their home on evening and begged for a job. 

Javert had never looked so uncomfortable. Valjean had laughed so hard that tears had escaped his eyes at the panicked expression on his partner’s face when a woman knelt before him and took his hand as she pleaded with him for assistance.

Valjean had hired her to work in one of his factories.

Several months later, when the harsh winter was upon them, Valjean met Mme. Durant’s daughter. She was a tiny wisp of a thing with long hair and a mucky face. Valjean had been unable to tell if her hair was blonde like her mother’s or brown. The girl needed a good bath, but he didn’t mention it. 

The small family had called over to see Javert and himself on Christmas Eve. The child, Fantine, had had a gift clasped in her fingers. The child had spent the time while her parents were at work with a knife, carefully whittling away and small clumps of wood. She had carved them a small nativity set.

There was a crudely carved Mary, Joseph and a lump that was the baby Jesus. She had carved them one angel, two sherpards, three wise men and numerous of lumps that were apparently animals. There was a large block of wood which looked like some odd creature. It towered over the others, but Fantine had smiled up at Javert when he had asked what it was and informed him that it was God.

She explained in a patient voice that no one knew what God looked like, but she didn’t want to offend Him by getting it wrong. It had made Valjean laugh. He decided that he liked the nine year old girl.

They spent Christmas with the Durant family. Javert and Valjean brought two bottles of wine and a large cut of pork for Christmas dinner. Their hosts provided the rest.

It was a wonderful day with much laughter and joy. Javert had even managed to join in for a while. He got kicked out of their card game though, because Javert stuck to rules with a fierce determination. He couldn’t abide people cheating, even when it was to allow a child to win a few games. 

Valjean plied the man with more wine though, trying to keep him quiet. The only downside of this was that Javert climbed into his lap early in the evening and went to sleep. As it was not unlawful, their hosts did not object, but M. Durant’s conversation became most awkward after that. Mme Durant and the child were an entirely different matter, claiming that the usually too serious man was most adorable like that.

Valjean privately agreed with this statement, but he backed M. Durant when he exclaimed loudly that no man wanted to be described as adorable.

He ended up half carrying a drunken Javert home. It was no difficulty to endure the kisses that the man pressed along his neck as they stumbled along, but Valjean knew his lover would be mortified in the morning when he regained his senses.

Their Christmas night was spent in bed, enthusiastically reaffirming their love for one another.

\---

It was not until several months later that the accident occurred. It was the end of April and Valjean could clearly remember reading that Myriel had been appointed Bishop of Digne. He had smiled at that and put the newspaper in his pocket so that he might show Javert when they got home.

In the end, they had not arrived home.

Javert had apparently been heading back from work when he had heard a disturbance. He had hurried over to the commotion to find a vicious fight taking place. Valjean believed that had it been someone else receiving a beating, Javert would have hurried off to find a police officer. As it was, it was M. Durant.

Javert and M. Durant had gotten to be friends over the five months they had known each other. Valjean had a feeling that the man had been Javert’s only friend. If it had been someone else fighting, Javert’s concern would not have been so stoked. 

He had thrown himself into the fight. He had successfully beaten back two of the three assailants when the third produced a knife and stabbed at him.

Javert was no weakling and he was not unprepared. He was injured by the knife, but the wound was not serious. He disarmed the man and told him to run, that he would be informing the police of the night’s events and that he ought to move before he was arrested.

Javert had not expected the man to come back later on for revenge. It was the middle of the night when Valjean felt movements on their bed. He awoke to find Javert fighting with the man.

Adrenaline pumping, Valjean jumped up and moved to help. He should have stayed put. If only he had not moved…

Valjean’s movements distracted Javert at the wrong moment, and the twenty six year old hit the floorboards with a cry. Valjean roared angrily, his body moved fiercely and he knocked the assailant to the ground. Blinded with rage, Valjean threw the man out of their room, he heard a loud crack as bones were broken but he did not care.

As Valjean struggled back into his lover, he realised that the knife was embedded in his ribs.

He pulled it out and fell to his knees. 

Dead? He was going to die?

He looked at Javert; his beautiful body shuddering as he struggled to keep breathing.

There was so much red.

Blood red.

Valjean reached out a blood stained hand to grasp at Javert.

“I… I can’t….” Javert gurgled on his own blood, struggling to speak. “Can’t lose you… Don’t die. I comeback, but you might not.”

“Javert…” murmured Valjean, using all his strength to hold his head up. He heard as scream as their landlord came in, likely drawn by the crashing noises.

“D’t … die… Don’t die… Plea-” Javert cut off again, gasping.

“I won’t.” he promised, with no idea how to keep this promise. “I won’t.”

“Love you… too mu- I love… I….” Javert coughed some more.

“I know!” gasped Valjean.

“I love you…” whispered Javert, his body going still. The blood that fell from his lips was a deep contrast to the milky white tone of his skin.

“Can’t die…” muttered Valjean, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “…Promise…”

He twitched as he reached out with one hand. His body fell heavily onto its side, but Valjean found Javert’s hand. It was still warm.

He kissed it.

Dead…. Javert was dead…

How long until he was reborn?

How long did Valjean need to hang on?

As his eyes shut and his body stilled, Valjean imagined that he could feel his skin start to knit back together.


End file.
